Better Life Cycle

Entering Ethiopia

2011-05-03T10:55:00.006+03:00

The reading I'd done about cycling Ethiopia had done little to prepare me for the reality. Tales of other cyclists had singled it out as one of the most testing places on the planet to pass; stone throwing kids being the main culprit soon followed by volleys of verbal abuse and highway robbery. How inspiring! The reality however, was a world away.

By this point I'd given a lot of thought to how to appease pebble pelting kids even contemplating cycling all day in a superhero outfit! Alas no Superman and Spidey costumes for two overgrown fellas could be found in Sudan.

So with a breath of hesitation and a pinch of positive bravado Kenny and I rolled across the border.

The change after nine months of being in the Arab world was stark; swathes of brightly dressed people, hustle, bustle, bars and women; publicly visible women. My word, even some cleavage! Steady on – eyes on the road Kenny! It was a riot and amusement to the senses. Brilliant!

Without our superhero outfits, Kenny and I had been honing our Amharic (the national language of Ethiopia) from a phrase book instead, trying to close the cultural chasm that had been laid out in the books and blogs of travellers before us. Our first attempts seemed to go down well; everyone seemed friendly. After 10kms we'd had no rocks in the face; what were we worrying about? We pedalled into the lush green hills with tails wagging.

Middle Earth

I've never visited a fantasy planet or time-travelled but our first few hours in Ethiopia seemed to come pretty close. If you're familiar with the Lord of the Rings, we'd entered the Shire, home to the Hobbits.

The land seemed energised. Ancient knotted and twisted trees branched to fantastical proportions. Plants, flowers and vegetables bloomed. Little wooden huts lined the road. People dressed in garments with more patches than a grandmas quilt. Unanxious animals roamed freely. Hills rolled into mountains. It was quiet; a whisper of wind and the ambience of clunking pans, mothers natter and children's laughter. Life seemed simple and happy. There was serenity; a natural order between people, animals and environment. It was like another world, where life lived in balance.

Our rapture was soon complete. Rolling towards a huddle of humble wooden homes we were greeted by a line of female smiles across the road. We were blocked and soon surrounded by a wall of singing sirens bewildering the two-wheeled sailors who'd floated in whilst in a dream. For all my travels I would not ask for a moment more beautiful than this.

As night fell we thanked our lucky stars and spent the night under the mosquito nets and hospitable gaze of a family we met on the road. Welcome to Ethiopia.

Road to Gondar

We set off early riding towards to the sunrise. Our progress was slowed by the stunning beauty of the light and scenery that the reams of photographs I took still fail to adequately capture.

The road wound its way through successively higher peaks and we ground our way up and glided down the mountain-sides drawing closer to Gondar. The ride provided the trials and rewards of adventure; flung into a new culture and language, tasting new food, camping in mountains, seeking refuge from the torrential rains under majestic trees, and provoking screams of laughter from children with our attempts at Amharic.

It was striking just how many kids there were. Not a rest stop went by be it in a sunny vale or rainy mountain-side where children didn't appear.

Still no stones

The only thing thrown at us to this point was a volley of requests for anything it was assumed we might have. In trying to politely refuse requests we consulted our phrasebook:
No = m'be
I'm sorry = aznalo
Easy enough! So with a touch of self-assurance we regaled this phrase along our route. We found out much later m'be is considered slightly rude and aznalo the kind of sorry you say when someone has died; truly lost in translation. For reference, a better phrase would be 'Yellenyem yikarta, eshi?', 'I'm sorry, I don't have any – ok?'

Despite our commiserating Kenny had truly flipped the script and seemed to be getting the hang of getting kids to push him uphill! Quite a turn-up for the books… and blogs.

That night we watched one of the most heavenly sunsets we might ever be likely to see.

Knowing we'd be very unlikely to find a stealth camping spot, with people seemingly everywhere, we chose to seek refuge in a church. Our request to camp caused an almighty row; the main protagonists shaking rifles at each other. To save a death before dinner we tried politely to leave but this caused even more consternation and rifle wagging at us; easy tiger! In the end it seemed that problem was not if we could stay but with whom. The most diplomatic solution was soon reached and we were given simple but perfect lodging inside a store room.

The following day we passed the world and his wife and their cows walking to market; a procession that stretched for over 10km either side of the town. There are so few cars in Ethiopia it seems that everyone walks no matter how far. Outside Addis the only traffic you'll be held up by is of the kind that munches grass for fuel. Alas cows' constant methane burping is not much better than cars for our environment but here at least there's a natural balance.

Soaking it in

We sat out the afternoon rains in a town surrounded by intrigued kids eager to hone their English, which they start learning in 2nd Grade. The attention could be overwhelming but for now it wasn't, we were drawing close to the ancient capital of Gondar, with its castle, 47 churches and unbeknown to us at this point an inspirational local NGO called Yenege Tesfa.

I will remember the days from the Sudanese border to Gondar as some of the most magnificent of the trip, the kind of adventure I'd dreamed of. The landscape lush and green, the rainy season having restored life, wealth and full bellies, the start of an eye opening expedition into Ethiopia that after six months still continues.

Sudanese Swansong

2010-12-22T19:18:00.007+03:00

Weeks and months fly by. The last update brought me to Khartoum, since then I’ve been back to Damascus [blogged here], cycled across from the sands of Sudan into the lush green mountains of Ethiopia. These are the memories of the last days of Sudan.

Getting set

After reuniting with Kenny in Khartoum, we spent a workmanlike week updating this website, building a CV site for our CouchSurfing host, Omar and importantly for me finalising some new tenants moving in to my place at home. Luckily my Mum was on hand to make a smooth transition; without her much about this trip would be considerably more difficult; thank you Mumma. As a result I’ve now got about £250 of income a month to sustain this ever-lengthening adventure.

KRT

Khartoum is an intriguing city, although there didn’t seem much to visit or actually do; especially on a budget. Kenny, by now well accustomed with the city, offered me some options on my second day back; “Well we could go to this nice roundabout… or ... (long pause) … a cemetery”. To be fair options did improve but I felt oddly caught in the ex-pat bubble.

Khartoum is a rapid changing place; the evidence of modernisation is clear, although the regime could be said to be lagging. The goodwill of the Sudanese people is as evident as ever, although nearly all I spoke to felt the repression of the state as a daily feature of their lives.

On Januray 9th 2011, there is a referendum on independence for the south of the country. Who knows what will happen but it seems the vast majority feel the south will vote for independence. Here’s hoping this is a genuine gesture by President Bashir to offer them control of their future.

Israeli Spies

The first few days cycling out of Khartoum were quite brutal; gusting headwinds, searing heat and one of the rare stretches with little distracting natural beauty… although we did get refreshing roadside sprinkler shower.

Looking for some alternative beauty I filmed some plastic bags stranded on a barbed-wire fence blowing in the wind. This innocuous action almost caused an international incident when we were swiftly apprehended and escorted to a police station. You need a permit to film or take photos in many parts of Sudan; a fact I’d conveniently (until now) ignored this.

Normally we wouldn’t have worried but on this day we weren’t quite spot-free. I didn’t have the permit; this was a military facility… and Kenny’s visa had expired. After a little roadside protest, the chief was called; in no uncertain terms he demanded us at the police station.

When we arrived, there were stern looks all around. Our passports were carefully analyzed. Grave looks appeared. My Arabic is improving but still basic but from what I could understand the situation didn’t sound good. More sergeants arrived. The word safara (embassy) was banded about. Then the passports were scrutinized again. We were playing it cool but internally wondering what on earth they were gong to do.

Then to our relief it was discerned that we weren’t Israeli spies, as initially expected; you know the type of hobo-like spies you often find on international missions cycling around filming plastic bags. It must say something about the propaganda these police are fed.

Miraculously Kenny’s expired visa wasn’t spotted despite at least seven set of eyes on it. We were given a quick lecture advising us of the perils of being Israeli and we were soon sent on our way with a parade of smiles and waves. Incident over; free to find it funny and unclench sphincter.

Ramadan

Cultural awareness and sensitivity should be two ever-present travel companions, so it was with some delight Kenny and I were told that Koran makes concession for travelers during Ramadan, allowing them to eat and drink during daylight hours. This was like the best of both worlds, eating during the day and feasting a night.

As sunset drew near on our first night outside Khartoum we were waved insistently off the road by a man with light batons more at home on a Top Gun flight deck. We were ushered into a roadside feast put on purely out of the kindness of the people and their desire to please Allah; what a fitting way to do it.

As the sun fell beneath the horizon, we awaited confirmation of the end to the day’s fast on the radio. A hundred or more men lined the matted, desert floor awaiting the call; gazing and murmuring at the feast in front of them. The call came and in a dignified rush, hands flew from dishes to mouths and back to dishes. There was a fervor only a hard working man who’s fasted over 12 hours in searing heat can muster. The food and the water were quaffed at remarkable rate before being called to an abrupt halt for prayer. I’m sure most of them could have used more than the five minutes or so they had to eat, I certainly could of, but they would get their fill later. It’s quite an oddity that most Muslims gain weight during Ramadan.

That we were not Muslim didn’t seem to bother anyone. Our hosts were delighted to show us their hospitality, and as now had become customary we ended up being given a place to sleep for the night in the nearby petrol station. This was a ritual repeated each night, without fail – without ever wanting something in return. The beauty of this culture in Sudan left us with a humbling lesson: who do you know who would offer their own bed to a complete stranger if he asked where he might sleep? Or the food from their plate simply because they thought he was hungry? What I thought of my attempts at generosity, showed how little I knew.

Sands to Grass

We’d had nothing but sand for well over 1000km and virtually no hills for almost 3000km. 3000kms of flat cycling may sound good but on the other hand from ground level you just don’t see very much. Hills are tougher but even when you curse them, the pleasures outweigh the pain - hidden landscapes are revealed; the unexpected rears its head and of course there’s the downhill cruising with the wind in you hair, glowing with a sense achievement. So with that said when the first hills rose from the sandy pan landscape it was a welcome sight. I scrambled up the first mound we reached. Looking down from high it cast the altered perspective I’d been missing.

Not on the map

As the landscape changed so did the caste of the people; the Arabs of the north mixing with their dark skinned Nubian countrymen from the south and brown gold skin of the Eritreans, Ethiopians, and Somalis to the East.

There was lots more children; running around partially clothed, in fitful arrays colour. There was laughing and screaming. Skinny livestock moseyed along roadside followed by boys with sticks. Circular mud huts appeared with thatched roofs and open doors, at first on their own and then in whole villages. Fires smoked. Towns buzzed. We had arrived somewhere new; not on the map; the Africa of my childhood imagination; ‘Black Africa’.

Sleeping on water

On our last night in Sudan we sketched our memories of our time, almost too much to remember. We found what seemed like a good pitch for our tent and snuggled down listening to the thunderstorms to the east raging over Ethiopia.

A few hours later we were awoken by the rains pummeling our tent. It’s a brilliant tent but not as waterproof as it used to be and the rain fell on us like a mist inside. This was soon accompanied by a buoyant feeling as our sleeping mats began to rise. It quickly became evident where we’d pitched our tent was flat because it was a dried up pond. As we sat tight in the tent wishing the storm to pass we chuckled at our predicament; after spending much of ride through Sudan wishing for water, on our last night it ended up giving us just what we wanted – like the rest of the country – more than we ever could have wished for.

Life on the Nile

2010-08-13T07:44:00.006+03:00

From the mouth of the Nile on the Mediterranean Kenny & I have pedalled over 2000km upstream to Khartoum. We’ve faced knife wielding Cairans, fulfilled boyhood dreams and conquered the vast expanses of the Sahara Desert en route; quite a journey. Here’s the best of it:

Ghetto Wedding

Wandering home after a gig, Kenny, Ahmad and I stumbled upon a street wedding. On taking a closer look, we were enthusiastically welcomed and beckoned to join a table. We were plied with drinks and I was invited to dance… a knife dance! I defaulted to capoeira mode and reproduced a ‘makulélé’ stick dance with the monster blade that had been thrust into my hand. It went down a storm.

It was a great night only mildly interrupted by a blade being thrust menacingly into my guts for switching tables; a social faux pas, I just about managed to explain my out of it – I am a dumb foreigner after all! Knife withdrawn; all smiles; part of some macho game I somehow survived; I’ll stick at my table next time.

Photo slideshow: Cairoooooo yeah!

Pyramid Climbing

The real pyramids to treasure near Cairo are at Dashour, 30km south. Almost the same size as Giza but crucially free of tourists and touts and surrounded by desert. The ‘Bent’ Pyramid, so called because it changes angle half-way up, is the steepest in Egypt and just 30m shorter than those at Giza.

It was one of my boyhood dreams to climb a pyramid; here with guards snoozing and no-one else in sight, I got my chance.

In truth it didn’t quite have the majesty I’d pictured as a kid yet it still gave me a childlike lightness from being a bit naughty and fulfilling this long held dream. This sense of lightness is called ‘deam haffif’ in Arabic, which translates literally as 'light blood', it is a state of being I increasingly strive for.

Photo slideshow: Cairoooooo yeah!

Nile Heat

The 600km ride to Luxor was a return to solo cycling for the first time in a while. Kenny had cycled ahead a week earlier to meet Kiran, a friend from home. I cycled out of Cairo past the Pyramids and South along the Nile.

Jovial and otherwise bored policemen had orders to escort me; shielding me from some unlikely hidden danger. It seemed all the more preposterous given the friendly greetings of almost everyone I passed and met on the way.

The real danger was the heat; at times it reached over 50^oC; even the Egyptians called it a heat wave. It was suffocatingly hot; the most physically torturous days of the ride to date. So affected was my mind, it spent hours composing odes to the blissful silken touch of a breeze or the embrace of cool waters. I’ll spare you the punishment of repeating them.

I raced through the endless stream of towns; one day topping 200km, a sizeable but exhausting feat. When I finally rolled into Luxor, the air-con, chilled drinks and power-shower in Kenny & Kiran’s room were sheer luxury. The joy tickled me to a smile, then laugh in mild hysteria at the wonder of these ‘simple’ things.

Photo slideshow: Luxor & the Nile

Hypostyle Hall

Boyhood dreams of Egypt were many and another was to visit Karnak Temple. The whole site is as huge as it is impressive but the Hypostyle Hall is the jewel I’d longed to see. Its mighty columns dwarf all beneath them, standing tall for over 3000 years. The deeply etched history and cartouches of Ramses II adorn the columns, his attempt to limit his successors’ ability to overwrite him.

Kenny and I lingered around the site until closing when the crowds were ushered out. We wandered around discreetly having the whole place, one of the most majestic on the planet, entirely to ourselves… at least until we were discovered. Being able to soak it in alone in quiet and astounded contemplation was heavenly.

Photo slideshow: Luxor & the Nile

Dream Boat

There is one border crossing from Egypt to Sudan, a ferry across Lake Nasser, which runs once a week. I was on a tight schedule to make a flight back to Damascus from Khartoum so we arrived early to secure our places… but we were too late. Mr. Saleh the official in charge empathised but didn’t budge; there was no room on the boat.

As we left contemplating a Plan B, we met an irrepressible Dutch lady Kiem, and her husband, who on hearing our predicament offered their places to us at the drop of a hat. This meant they’d have to wait anther week to go. Who does this?! Good people do. As it turned out the same had happened to them in South America and a New Yorker named Justin had stepped aside. How lucky we were for Kiem, for Justin, and Mr. Saleh who miraculously found a way to squeeze our new friends back on.

The boat itself was noisy, overcrowded and quite fantastic. Rammed with friendly Sudanese folks travelling home, it crawled through the night, appearing to face the wondrous sight of Abu Simbel at dawn. We met several other travellers driving through Africa, most of whom thought we were mad; we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Photo slideshow: Aswan & The Boat to Sudan

Crossing the Sahara

The Sahara we entered was not the ocean of dunes I’d envisaged. Instead something of Martian landscape of sand hewn with rocky outcrops and peaks. The newly laid road made it an almost welcoming wilderness. It was still, noiseless and strangely startling.

Two days in with 668km to Khartoum, a tough decision had to be made. Kenny was suffering with heat exhaustion and a dodgy stomach and we were running behind time for my flight back to Damascus. In truth there was little choice. We parted ways with a smile but it was a sad moment.

After adjusting to being alone once more the kms raced by. I relished the solitude in the massive expanses around me. That night I camped beneath a sea of stars; a cooling wind blew, and as the camp stove bubbled I raised my hands aloft, soaking in the moment: naked and alone in the desert; totally contented. That night I slept under 10,000 stars.

The Sudanese people I met were so kind, gentle, and inquisitive. They had an energy I like to be immersed in; they seemed innately spiritual. I can’t adequately describe it but to say they represent humanity in a way I wish I saw more.

The road to Khartoum was an army like routine:

04:00 - 05:00 - wake up, pack up camp, eat noodles
05:00 - 12:00 - cycling, snack, drink, drink more
12:00 - 16:00 - cook a big pasta, eat, snooze (if possible), eat leftovers
16:00 - 21:00 - press on, stay hydrated, find a spot to camp
21:00 – 22:00 - eat and drink as much as possible, pass out

I had a mission: 6 days to cover almost 1000kms. I made it. It felt like great achievement to have ‘cycled the Sahara in summer’ …and just in time for my flight.

The routine and the environment could be harsh, serene, wearing and delighting. Challenging then utterly fulfilling, this is what I came for.

Photo slideshow: Crossing the Sahara

Salute the hosts

Many of the unexpected highlights of Egypt were the result of CouchSurfing. First in Alexandria then in Cairo, Kenny and I were hosted by and introduced to people who transformed us from tourists into guests.

No longer at the whim of Lonely Planet guides, we were shown the places our local hosts are proud of, invited to events, and became part of what was going on rather than just looking at it.

We owe a big thank you to Shehab, Manu, Ahmad, and Nada – all of whom hosted us and made the last few months so incredible.

(If you haven’t heard of CouchSurfing, check it out. In short: kind people offer their spare beds or couches for people to stay for free. It has a tried and trusted system of referral that works. In my experience the hosts offer a level of hospitality you can’t buy. It is an outstanding way of meeting people and example of the internet dong what it is best for, bringing people together.)

Pain in the protest

2010-07-03T18:52:00.007+03:00

The movement of the discontented met the snarling wall of force; protesters face to face with the police. Shielding my friend, blows struck; fists thudded into my back, a slapping strike landed, boots swung. I had to move, fast.

Khalid Said: The face of the oppressed

2 weeks ago a young law student died. Khalid Said had also protested. Two plain clothes policemen entered an internet café and demanded his ID. Khalid, knowing his rights, refused.

Khalid was found nearby the following morning with a bag stuffed in his mouth. The initial autopsy claiming he died of asphyxiation after swallowing a packet of drugs. Witnesses present a different story.

The leaked photos show Khalid’s features deformed and bloodied. In video the oblivious officers are seen viciously attacking Khalid and forcibly removing him from the internet café. What happened thereafter is unknown but seemingly self-evident.

Outraged youth groups have held protests in Alexandria the scene of the atrocity and yesterday in Cairo.

There has been some international condemnation and ‘concern’, little to move the Egyptian authorities.

Are you sure you want to go?

A chance meeting with Mai is a freelance photographer had led my friend Ahmad and I to join the protest. She had offered to ‘protect’ us. It was hard to imagine what protection her slight-frame could offer but it was somehow reassuring.

I was told protests in Egypt end with brutal force, arrests made, with the possibility of indefinite detention. Egyptian lawyers and human rights groups estimate that between 5,000 and 10,000 people are currently in long-term detention without charge or trial. Protesters here need to be brave.

Approaching the agreed meeting point in Tahir Square (the central square in Cairo) the roads were ominously quiet. Tens upon tens of riot vans lined the streets, stacked with young recruits brooding in the overbearing heat. More police lingered in marked cars, and several posses of heavy set men loitered nearby. It was immediately intimidating. That was the point. The fraction of my mind that was intimidated led me to realise this show of force alone would turn many away.

We continued.

We met Mai nearby in the well known Horeya Café, half an hour before the scheduled start. Two photographers had reportedly already been arrested.

I was one part scared, two parts intrigued. I had been made aware of the dangers; this after all was a march against police brutality.

As we moved towards the square, the small groups of young people sizing up the situation were increasingly obvious, most on their phone; the protest would move, instead we would march.

And so it began.

In the thick of it

With as fewer than 20 people around me, on non-descript corner; the first shout rang out. “Khalid Khalid, you are our marty., Khalid Khalid, you did not die vain…” The voice was indefatigable, all the injustice, distress, anger, despair and fear was avenged in his roar. This was a man prepared to fight a futile fight, to the bitter end - for amongst all the emotion there seemed little hope, no inspiring belief of change, just resentment, rage at the machine.

The feverish call echoed back, as the hastily relocated protesters were drawn in. Quickly our number grew to 40, 50, 80, and more.

We marched. Traffic stopped. It was hard to discern much support outside those marching, more indifference. The march was flanked by a stream of spectators, filming on their phones; not so interested in the cause it seemed, as seeing what would happen. People here know what happens; defiance is not tolerated.

Small numbers of police could be scuttling nearby, try to keep up and direct forces to intercept the feisty horde. The march moved at a frenetic pace, heartbeats racing. We twisted and turned to avoid the inevitable moment that would soon arrive.

The road ahead was blocked; a band of 20 uncertain looking riot police, with several other officers and more burly men in civilian clothes; these were the scary ones. It was hard to tell who they were but the look of intent in their eye marked them out. They looked more than ready to disperse the crowd.

The roars of the crowd at first amplified but then faded as small teams trued to pull the most vocal protagonists from the crowd. The collective spirit faded, rapidly as the instinct for self-preservation set in. Most dispersed, the most committed refused to be moved.

The net closed. Retribution for the unauthorised protest was swift and uncompromising. Shouts turned to cries as tide quickly turned. Mai was in the thick of it. This is her profession, her art but there was no appreciation for it amongst the audience who were now pressing their advantage with force.

Like a watchtower in the midst of it all, I stood still, observing. I had stopped chanting as soon as I understood the nature of some of the calls. I don’t feel insults represent my support for the cause, it seemed they intended to antagonise; they succeeded.

Now my only concern was for my friends. I could not see Ahmed. Mai was being shunted around in the throng of die-hard protesters and a few stragglers trapped in the mêlée.

As I moved to help Mai out of the only exit left, I felt a few heavy thuds in my back. I could just see a stout man of average height dressed in plain clothes. He bellowed at the other protesters. He was acutely angry.

A red mist had descended. Normally foreigners are not targeted; the rationale to make this distinction no longer remained.

I half pulled, half guided Mai through the closing gap. Our only out: a small side alley amid a skirmish of shoves, shouts, and scattering souls. Cajoling Mai, I received my blows. It was not my instinct to react only to get out. Turning down the wrong passageway here could result in a beating I was not in the mood to receive. Protect. Get out.

My heart raced as we turned a blind corner. Would we meet yet more raucous police recruits? Mercifully not. Mai was trembling. I was struggling to run in my sandals. (Note: not a good choice of footwear)

Out but not over

We came out onto a sun filled street, anonymous again. We could disappear from here; I breathed a sigh of relief. Mai had other ideas. She could barely talk, she was so overcome with what she had seen, yet her resolve was unaltered. I urged a moment of caution, to realise when a battle is won and when it is lost. It didn’t register.

Familiar faces from the march appeared; a few calls (thankfully Ahmed was ok); a quick debriefing, then onto the Courts of Justice, this wasn’t over.

We arrived, now just 15 in number, in a street lined with almost half as many riot vans. Before we could start a stately officer entered our hyper-sensitised group. I couldn’t understand all the Arabic but his message was calm and clear:

‘I understand you. I empathise. But this is not the time or the place. You are hopelessly outnumbered and will be arrested. Be wise and move on.’

His message sounded like sense to me, I’m glad it was heeded; a timely tonic of wisdom from the ‘enemy’.

The last hurrah came on the steps of the Syndicate of Journalists, 500m away. Here safely contained and hemmed in by an organised force, the protest finished unrestrained. People could freely enter and leave and the numbers swelled, while the protesters continued their diatribe and demanded the release of the arrested.

After a few hours all had been released. The most ardent returned to mock the troops in front of them. I had since left. My brain was swimming in thought and coming down off the adrenaline. I needed my own headspace.

Reflecting

As I left, I met trio afraid to join the march. They’d kept back wary of being caught up in the fray. The protesters I spoke to bemoaned their lack of number, feeling that a critical mass was needed before it became easy for the police to desert and presumably their protest to triumph. Ironically the widely held desire that conflict was necessary to get attention was the same reason many, including this trio chose not to join them.

I do not resent being hit, I understand. The police responded with violence where violence was sought. I understood the risk of being there.

I learnt that this was not my kind of protest. I don’t wish to antagonise and demonise, I want to understand. What happened to Khalid and countless others is horrific but I doubt hurling insults will solicit a favourable response. Nevertheless I value their action; we should all have the right to protest.

I’m reminded of Mother Theresa’s response when asked why she didn’t join an anti-war rally; she replied “As soon as you have a pro-peace rally I’ll be right at the front.” This resounds deeply with me, especially when coupled with countless acts of kindness in the face of oppression.

Should the protesters each use their passion as a force of goodwill and spark local grassroots initiatives (working within the restraints of this system), I would hope the benefits would help to sway this otherwise indifferent nation to join them. Not as radical or instant as revolution, but it is easier to suppress hostility than humanity.

Moving on… the moments that make it

2010-05-30T18:30:00.007+03:00

Having finally left Damascus, I headed south in Jordan to continue my journey, then across the Red Sea and after a tour of the Sinai, into Africa… at long last. I’d felt a little out of sorts leaving life and my friends in Syria but my wanderlust soon returned.

As ever there too many memories to include; I’ve done my best to edit it down.

Kings Highway

Cycling the Kings Highway in Jordan quickly washed away the cobwebs. It is probably the most spectacular road I’ve ridden yet. This ancient biblical road follows the ridges of the Jordanian mountain range, falling almost 2km down spectacular wadis into the Dead Sea Valley.

Cycling with Nadia, a good friend from Damascus we spent several days oscillating along the rise and fall of the road; including the full descent to the Dead Sea. (Note: yes you do float; you can just about get entirely submerged; don’t open your eyes it hurts like hell)

Visiting the Dana nature reserve was particularly memorable for the sights as well as the hospitality of Khalid and the Dana People’s Cooperative. Nadia and I scoped out a potential project in the area for Bidna Capoeira. Despite falling ass-first into a stream during an earlier demonstration, the enquiring elders were soon eager for to arrange a programme. Not bad as my first effort as Bidna Capoeira’s ‘Cycling Emissary’ – I’ll double check for streams next time.

Petra

No site I’ve visited has wowed me as much as Petra. On a local tip we trekked for 1½ hour through a wadi north of the site, following a secret path marked by stone piles, to sneak into the site for free. This uncertain leap of faith proved to be one highlights of the day, as we found ourselves entering the sprawling site through a cascade of unmarked tombs, far from the beaten path. We could barely believe our luck.

We entered the site near the Monastery, a further hour’s hike up a narrow mountain path. Winding up the long succession of smoothed stairs you round another corner and suddenly the towering Monastery hits you with sheer impressiveness and size. Its amusing to watch as almost everyone is stopped in their tracks, gawking at the first sight. Immaculately preserved and over 1500 years old it deserves that startling moment.

Eyes opened by our morning’s trek, greeting the opportunity to beat your own path around the site, Nadia and I managed to avoid the thickening crowds, and wander curiously alone through remote tombs, up old eroded stairways to the hidden treasures Petra has in abundance. It bought out a childish sense of adventure, I was only too happy to indulge.

The final glory of our day is most people’s first; the Treasury, of Indiana Jones fame. Walking the sheer sided Siq through which less intrepid or perhaps more honest, paying customers enter the site, the Treasury appears; a marvel of human creation framed by staggering natural beauty. No exaggeration, this is a truly a wonder of the world.

Homesick

After a sad farewell with Nadia in Aqaba and boarding the ferry to Egypt, I was truly alone for the first time in months. Despite the company of a friendly Spanish couple cycling home from Australia just in time for their wedding, my mind was elsewhere. My body may have left Damascus but my mind was still there. Being with Nadia had simply prolonged the reaction.

It took me a while to realise I was feeling homesick, not for London, for Sham (as Damascus is known locally). The simple truth was that I had found a life I was very happy with there and had it not been for the calling of the cause in Africa, I would have gladly stayed.

I had been so welcomed by my new friends, cared for, fed (very important), and loved I felt a deep sadness to be separated from them. I had found a purpose in working on Bidna Capoeira I felt passionate about and felt part of a community. More than any other place I have known, I was fulfilled there, surrounded by them. For all the joyfulness and love I received, with my whole being, thank you my friends.

Sharming with the Fam

After a whistle-stop visit to Dahab, where Lisa and Jamie, friends from home, treated me to a fun and insanely luxurious two nights in the 5* Le Meridien – I made it to Sharm-El-Sheikh to meet my Sis and nephews. They are probably the only catalyst that would have sparked the departure from my Damascene dream.

Like many beach resorts, Sharm seems a charmless monstrosity, 40km of little but 5* resorts, devoid of any sense of local culture. There is little reason to leave your resort, and there was a strange sense of almost being locked in, it felt very alien. However with three young boys to entertain, we needed little more, whiling away the days by the pool and sea, messing about, as I gladly got to play uncle and catch up with my Sis for the first time in a long time – one of the very few things I miss from home, where it feels like increasingly longer before I return.

A flyby visit of Cairo salvaged some cultural respectability; a little present to my nephs. (I’ll save the descriptions of the Pyramids et al. for a time when I’ve had longer to savour them).

Red Sea

The morning after my Sister and the boys flew out, Kenny G flew in, to join me for the ride through Africa. The first day’s cycling up to Dahab was hot, hilly and into a hellish headwind; bad timing G!

It had been the plan to take some time to acclimatise. In no time at all, two weeks had rolled by. (I think I may have always been on Africa time!) We were joined midway by Tarek and Ummul, two good friends from Damascus. After another beastly cycle our happy quartet settled in Ras Sheitan, a place of beach huts, good food and friendly, laid-back, left-leaning Israelis.

In between morning capoeira and music lessons, we had several fascinating conversations about experiences of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and life in Israel. Dana, a very kind-hearted lady, epitomised the voice of understanding and need for collaboration.

Dana works for Combatants for Peace (please check out their website). After hearing many polarised views in my time in the Middle East, hers seemed like the voice of reason to me; bringing people on both sides together to forge solutions to bring an end to the inhumanity and make a better life for all whom suffer.

Crossing the Sinai

Our trip across the Sinai was at times starkly monotonous, others serene; good training for the Sahara, which has now been put into somewhat worrying context. Cycling between 12 – 4 was impermissibly hot; with the likelihood being that we’ll suffer 10oC+ more in southern Egypt & Sudan at the hottest time of the year. However through the times that are endured, joyous moments shine.

Having woken before dawn and sent Kenny on ahead, a comedy of errors unfolded, as I spent two hours diagnosing and fixing a mysterious ‘eek’ from my bike. Back on the road, cycling uphill into the strengthening headwind, I was having to grit my teeth to play catch up. Reaching the top of a climb the wind turned and the road gently rolled into the distance. It was stunning; mountains mixed with dunes; a desert wilderness, silent but for the whistling wind as I glided with exhilarating speed. I smiled constantly for over an hour. With cycling, as with anything, the sour times only make the sweet ones sweeter.

Good Omen Africa

Kenny & I umm-ed and ahh-ed about whether the extra 350km round trip to enter Africa on it’s only overland point would be worth it. But we went with our positive whim headlong into the southerly winds.

Two days later we crested the Mubarak Peace Bridge over the Suez Canal, to finally enter Africa. At the mid-point of the bridge I stopped the video from rolling to avoid the attention of the approaching guard. I needn’t have worried. With an effusive two handed wave, (one seemingly waving an Asia farewell, the other welcoming us to Africa), he beamed a touching smile, cried his blessings and with a flourish blew us a kiss. It was a magic moment.

We stopped to catch our breath after the bridge, grinning at our achievement. ‘Africa; it even smells different’ remarked the olfactorily excited Ken. As bought a few supplies we sparked up a conversation with the first ‘African’ person we’d met. Without any sense of ceremony he removed his head scarf and tied it on Kenny’s recently shaven head, telling him he need it. He wanted nothing, other than for us to have a good impression of his home. He succeeded. What a welcome!

NE to SW

We’re in Port Said, the north-eastern most point of Africa, primed to traverse the continent in full. Kenny’s first comment on the continent was ‘Africa; it even smells different’. It’s true that it does seem different, although my nose hadn’t sensed it. It has been instantly livelier, with more people and bustle, and the locals have been friendlier that those presumably weary of westerners on the Sinai. Long may it continue – Insha’Allah!

I can’t wait to have my camera fixed in Cairo; I’ve made do with other peoples ‘point and shoot’ cameras since Damascus; it’s just not quite the same - hopefully better photos to come. That and a number of life and charity admin tasks should soon be resolved, leaving my mind free to enjoy what’s in front of me.

The adventure so far has taught me a great deal, not least to make the most of the journey. It is an exciting time. I still haven’t a clue how long it will take to reach Cape Town; how could I? There is a whole continent of opportunity ahead of us. Bring it on!

End of the Damascene Dream

2010-04-11T01:16:00.007+03:00

After an unexpected four month break from the saddle in Damascus, it is now time to repack my panniers. In two weeks I will meet my sister and nephews in Sharm El Sheikh in Egypt and shortly after Kenny G will fly out to start the ride through Africa. My time here has been changed my outlook on the ride considerably; one of the many reasons I found it so hard to leave.

Why Damascus?

I’m not the only one to get ‘stuck in Damascus’; here’s some of the reasons this city keeps you from leaving:

Food is cheap; a bagful of falafel, nuts and fruit, & a fresh juice for under £2. (All contributing to the 10 or so kilos I’ve packed on since I arrived)
It’s a small city: 4 million people live here but it feels more like 4000, the amount of times you bump into friendly faces and are greeted by people in the street
Cool ex-pats: people who come to Syria have chosen to reject the propaganda an opt to embrace an entirely different culture; a good starting point
The weather: I like the sun; we sunbathed on Christmas day; ‘nuff said’
Getting around is easy; you can walk most places & (although I probably shouldn’t be admitting this) taxis are super cheap; what would cost £10 in London is more like 50p here
Damascus is safe. I mean safe in a way that I can walk around at any time of night in ill-lit backstreets without the slightest concern
It is beautifully random; the Lambada is the reverse warning sound on 50% of the vehicles, the kinkiest panties you’ve ever can be seen sold next hijabs, and young cool dudes drive down the street proudly blaring out Celine Dion!

Quick tips: if you’re looking for a place to stay, start with Yalla House; always get the taxi drivers to put the meter (adat) on, learn the Arabic numbers (you’ll end up paying less); get a bus from the airport 50p, not the taxi $50; and if you’re flying here, I’d advise getting an open-ended return, it can be hard to leave.

The people

The Syrians, Iraqis, and Palestinians who make up the majority of the population here, have a warmth of hospitality I’ve never previously experienced. This is no hyperbole; here’s a story that happened recently:

In a kidnapping attempt to stop a beautiful Italian friend from flying home, I stuffed her into a nearby taxi. This mock attempt failed and after a doe eyed farewell, she jumped in her ride to the airport. (Public signs of affection; even a simple kiss are a bit of a no-no (heram) here).

I slumped into the taxi. The taxi driver looked at me empathetically. ‘Girlfriend?’ he said… ‘yani’ I replied which is to say, kind of. With a jolt, completely uninstructed, he began pursuing her car through the traffic. ‘Wein? Matar?’ – ‘Aiwa’ I replied - she’s off to the airport. So steaming down the highway, in spite of oncoming traffic, I flagged down her car for a proper goodbye – heram or not!

Riding home Shinou, my driver and new emotional support offered to take me out: drinking, for a nargileh… in fact he even offered to take me to a comforting lady; I opted for just a ride home. When the time came to pay for the ride, I reached to my pocket, only for him to insist I take money from him. Instead I took his number and I’ll shared a nargileh with him the next day.

This is one a handful of acts of random kindness I’ve received. Like anywhere there are exceptions and foreigners can be the object of endless fascination and unwanted attention – but the overwhelming majority put any welcome I’ve shown people visiting my country to shame. Something I intend to change.

More than the random encounters, the circle of friends I’ve made here have made my stay so special. There are too many people to name; people who have cooked for me, let me stay in their houses, taken me out, and shown me around. They have made Damascus feel like a second home and made me feel part of a community in a way I haven’t experience before; the main reason I’ve found it so hard to leave. Words are beyond my gratitude to them all, lest to say I have a tear in my eye as I write this. Thank you all.

Somar, who’s been like a brother to me here, made me a hand carving of my new capoeira name in wood: ‘Vagabundo’; vagabond - for the foreseeable future I will just that. On the back is inscribed ‘Don’t foget to cycle home; Damascus’ – one day, for sure, I will. Insha’allah akeed!

Getting involved

Many of the people I’ve met were through capoeira. I used to play back in London but reignited my love for it here in a big way. Seeing the work the CapoeirArab group had done in the Al-Tanf Refugee Camp was inspiration enough to work as hard as I was at home in setting up a new NGO; Bidna Capoeira. We will teach capoeira; bringing its dance, music, and joyful energy to under served communities around the world.

I’ve seen the capoeira effect first hand, at free classes we’ve given throughout Damascus; with inmates at the girls prison, over 100 Palestinian youths, and children from the poorest neighbourhoods. They all left smiling, excited and happy.

I’ve never felt as proud about a cause I’m working on as this. I will continue to help on my way south; as a cycling emissary, visiting UNICEF offices and teaching capoeira to kids at the orphanages on the way. There is so much to look forward to.

Going with the flow

I arrived in Damascus thinking I’d spend a week; I left London thinking I’d take a year to get to Cape Town; time estimation was never my forte. So for now, while I don’t need to, I won’t. This ride make take one more year, it may take two. What is most important to me is making the most of the opportunities on the way; helping out where I can on my way to completing the ride.

I feel as good as I ever have and glad I made those first steps towards this almost two years ago. I recently wrote a guest blog: ‘Take the long and winding road’, about it for Al Humphries excellent website; read my story and many inspirational thoughts there.

My original tagline for the Better Life Cycle was: One man, one bike, one year, one great idea. That will have to change…

Kenny G is cycling Africa

Kenny G (Ken McCallum), one of my best friends from home is joining me in Egypt, to join the ride potentially all the way to Cape Town. After six years at Bird & Bird solicitors he’s decided to fly the nest. I’m so excited about him joining me; he gave so much of his time to helping me fundraise and get on the way; I can’t think of a better or more worthy companion.

First big test will be the Sahara, it will be excruciatingly hot. Pack your sun-cream G.

A fond farewell

I had a little preparation for continuing my adventure with a weekend away in Latakkia with friends. The ‘secret’ beach we found and subsequent skinny dipping has given me a welcome reminder of the fun I have when on the road.

Cycling with Nadia, one of my Bidna Capoeira colleagues I met here, the first stop is Jordan; the Dead Sea, Petra and Wadi Rum… then at long last Africa.

So it’s maa salami (goodbye) to Sham and all the great times I’ve had here. I will have to play a non-stop game of capoeira against 25+ regulars at the capoeira class tomorrow, until I collapse of exhaustion. Haha - a good way to go; when your flat on your back the only way is upwards and onwards.

O man, O man, Oman

2010-02-04T20:17:00.004+03:00

It wasn’t anticipated, it wasn’t planned but 10 days in Oman has taught me a lot about myself and my approach to this ride. We posed as archaeologists, soaked up sun on stunning beaches and met the Brazilian Ambassador, UNICEF and some giant green turtles.

Go with the flow

Two weeks before getting on the plane, I had never contemplated visiting Oman; it was a random gulf country, of which I knew virtually nothing & had no real intention to visit. Then in the course of planning our new NGO, the opportunity randomly presented to visit itself…

Tarek, who I’ve been living with in Damascus - also my capoeira teacher, new NGO colleague, and now good friend – knows people from all corners, not least the Brazilian Ambassador in Oman, and Alex, a good friend and archaeologist based there.

So with a legitimate work excuse, a great place to stay, a local guide, and the chance to get some winter sun - who was I to refuse this gulf detour? Going with flow has gone well so far.

Omani opposites

First impressions of Oman were mixed; Alex, gave us the inside info:

Muscat city was built almost entirely in the last 15 years; 25km from the old town
It has the world’s second largest mosque
It is illegal to for anyone in Muscat to have a dirty car (little wonder there’s water shortage)
Its also illegal for Omanis to buy any alcohol… and worse, the death penalty can be exacted on them for missing one prayer time
The Sultan widely known to be fond of young boys
As Westerners we are already damned

...hmmmm... not all bad for the locals though:

Omanis get three sizable payouts from the sultan a year
When floods cut off the roads, kids are often flown to school by military helicopter. Ace!

The county itself seemed a strange parody; a very strict conservative Islamic state with a brand spanking new capital city, filled with big cars, highways, shopping malls and western brands: Marks & Sparks, Costa Coffee, Pizza Express, Dunkin’ Doughnuts, to name a few – it reminded me of Florida and like there you need a car to get anywhere. After two days in Muscat I was itching to go elsewhere. Luckily we headed south.

Turtle time

The landscape of Oman is rugged, colourful and stunning. Situated near the edge of the Arabian tectonic plate, it has just about all the natural resources Mother Earth can muster; it’s quite a show.

We spent three days visiting Alex’s archaeological site in Ras-Al-Jinz. Posing as archaeologists we made the most of the research centre’s facilities gratis, otherwise available at €150 a night; also allowing us access to the otherwise restricted turtle beach. Following Alex’s lead, we thoroughly inspected small stones, waved around our trowels and mused about the lives of the inhabitants of the site some 5000 years ago. Performance complete for the watching authorities, we were now free to make the most of the beautiful beach habitat.

The following morning we were up before light to track some Giant Green Turtles. We waited patiently in the dark for the telltale, shuffles. If the turtles see many people on the beach they turn around (hence the restricted access) but by the time hauled their 200kg+ shells, 100m up the beach, they’re not stopping for anyone. First they dig a hole, then lay their eggs, cover that hole, then dig a decoy to outfox the foxes – savvy turtle mummas. It was quite a remarkable sight but the real highlight was yet to come.

Just as the dawn broke, a little mound raised out of the sand. A tiny flipper appeared and soon after a tiny turtle, followed by a plume of tens of her little brothers & sisters. The word ‘cute’ simply doesn’t cut it. These tiny, delicate yet perfectly formed, baby turtles clambered over one another driven by instinct alone to head towards the light of the dawn and the sea. One of the most incredible natural sights I’ve seen.

However no sooner than I had marvelled at nature’s beauty than a seagull swooped down and gobbled one up for breakfast; a slight mood-kill but that’s nature’s way. Only 2 or 3 of 500 of these babies will make it back to this beach as adults, laying their next generation some 37 years later. Good luck chaps!

Not too Shab-by

Our journey back to Muscat was broken by a visit to Wadi Shab. This wadi (valley/dry river bed) was impressive from the outset; it had carved an 800m sheer faced valley into the mountain. We wandered and climbed for over an hour up the twisting valley amazed by the majesty and size of it.

The jewel in the crown of this valley is a part submerged cave, you have to swim to reach. Light streams in the cracks and sounds reverberate around as you paddle around, climb the slides and dive back in. This cave is no secret but when you’re in there it feels like it. My inner five year old was in heaven.

The next few days we got into rhythm of working, eating, and playing Carrom – it’s the local alternative to Playstation. It’s a tabletop game, most easily described as finger billiards. You play on a square board with four pockets. There’s plenty of room for tactics and ‘playing nasty’ – great for a bit of banter. I normally get my ass kicked… but not for long!

Putting the work into our 'working' holiday

It’s just as well we’d relaxed because the last few days were ram packed, starting with a visit to the Brazilian Embassy. We were met by Sergio, the Brazilian Ambassador, and his charming assistant Laila. We presented our new NGO and talked at length about our plans. It went very well.

Enthused by the meeting Sergio arranged for us to meet the head of the local capoeira group and UNICEF, to explore the possibilities of kicking off one of our first projects in Oman. It seems to be one of the beauties of what we’re doing, it can work anywhere – all ages and races can gain something from putting a little more music, rhythm and play back into their lives; particularly under-privileged kids with a need to express their anger and frustrations in a safe and healthy environment.

Project Oman

We heard how many kids from poorer areas had stopped coming to class after the school had to start charging fees when they had to start paying for an area to practice. These are the kids who were benefitting most from the training. Abdulazziz, the group’s leader said he’d seen a massive change in their confidence and attitude that was benefitting their everyday lives, in being motivated and finding work.

With the similar experience of Tarek’s CapoeirArab group, we should be able to help the local group combine UNICEF to get some free capoeira classes going later this year, in a new ‘youth-friendly’ space in the city centre. There’s a few hoops to jump through first but we’ll get there; having the Brazilian Ambassador help things along will certainly make it easier.

This is what our NGO is trying to do – whether in a refugee camp or in Omani suburbs – getting people feel better about themselves, and having that positive attitude benefit the rest of their lives. It’s a privilege to be involved in setting this up. I’m so thankful for the freedom I had to be able to act on a whim and join in. This ride isn’t about the ride or the destination; it’s about making the most of the otherworldly opportunity on the way. Damascus has really taught me that.

Fat farewell

An Omani feast the Ambassador had shared with us had barely settled in our bellies before we met up and trained with some of Abdulazziz’s capoeira group. It was great fun, full of the familiar smiles and energy.

No sooner had we finished our training than Alex whisked us off to the swanky Shangri-La resort for the best buffet of my life. Our stomachs had swollen somewhat after two weeks of exceptional seafood; just as well because this night my taste-buds couldn’t get enough. Just wow!

Feeling fat and full we boarded our plane home, only to be upgraded to business class (the most unlikely choice but we weren’t complaining) with yet more food… shouldn’t let it go to waste. I’ve been waiting too long to realise that actually, ‘good things come to those who ate’.

As Kenny would say: ‘if something lands on your plate, get your knife and fork out!’

Trapped in Damascus

2010-01-08T17:44:00.006+03:00

Almost six weeks have passed since my last update but it feels like much longer. So much has happened, yet I’ve not cycled an inch closer to Cape Town. I’m ‘trapped in Damascus’ and with good cause.

Hola Mumma

After entering Syria, I spent a few days exploring Latakia, Saladin’s Castle and the coast. I was enjoying my first taste of the Arabic world. Hospitality and intrigue in my bike seemed to follow me around, although my mind distracted; a day or so down the road I was due to meet my Mum. I’d often thought how much I’d have liked to have shared some of the experiences I’ve had with her.

We were due to rendezvous in a plush hotel near the fabled castle of Crac des Chevaliers. The prospect of being reunited with my proud Mumma was like a high-performance super-fuel in my tank as I pounded the pedals up into the mountains. After a hefty 130km cycle we arrived within minutes of each other.

I was beaming; so happy to her, as well as my Aunt Cynth, Claudette and their very friendly Syrian travelling companions. After the hugs and photos we had a chance for a good catch up, or perhaps for me a download; my mind has been wondering a lot while my legs are pedaling.

I spent the next day with my Mum and Claudette moseying around the city of Hama, with its famous norias (water wheels) and exceptionally beautiful Azem palace. More conversation and good food followed before I joined their tour for the visit to ‘Crac’ - a castle I’ve wanted to visit since childhood. It is immaculately preserved, a masterpiece of Crusader design.

As Mum’s tour rolled on, we waved goodbye and I sped down the mountain toward Lebanon, reaching my top speed on the trip so far 72kmph – speeds like that on a bike feel awesome.

Twist of fate

After a chaotic border crossing I arrived in Tripoli, feeling a little out of sorts. I’ll spare you the details but I spent the next few days sharing a room with a similarly crooked Spanish chap called Reuben, recovering from flu and di-hor-re-ally more than you need to know! I felt low, hugged the pillow and waited for it to pass.

I spent a few days in the Qadisha Valley to get my strength back. It was stunning; with a tranquillity and beauty that was quite a relief after the noise and pollution of Tripoli. The highlight however turned out to be meeting Fran and Oli a wonderful couple living in Damascus; within 5 mins of meeting they’d invited me to stay with them – in hindsight an incredible twist of fate.

After the Qadisha I cycled down to Beirut. The famed party town seemed to lacked real soul – fancy new buildings, ignored bullet-ridden ones and an air of superficiality I didn’t really dig. Maybe I didn’t visit the right places, meet the right people, or have the right perspective – nevertheless I left after 48 hours. One for different time.

Fortuitously I was joined on the ride Damascus by Gael, a French chap cycling to China. After a killer 1600m ascent, we decided to spend the night in the stunning Bekaa Valley. We visited yet another UNESCO World Heritage site at Aanjar – the ruins were far less impressive than many others I’ve seen but without anyone else there, amid the peace and tranquillity, it was one of my best experiences at an archaeological site to date.

I have to admit to being a little ‘ruined out’; there are only so many Greco-Roman colonnades my eyes could handle before becoming a little blasé. The irony is that it is people just like me who diminish the majesty of these sites; wielding cameras, mouths agog, too captivated to realise they’re standing on your foot.

Gael and I shared cycling stories while camping in an Armenian Church, the next day pedalling the last 70km to Damascus, our progress only briefly halted by some gun-toting border guards. We were marched farcically to a military facility and had our photos of the border territory deleted ceremoniously. These kinds of events no longer seem to register even a slight concern; it’s a game of sorts, one I will no doubt become increasingly accustomed to.

Damascus

Entering Damascus felt quite momentous, one of the oldest cities in the world; steeped in history. The name conjures images of oriental antiquity and with great fascination I soaked up the sights and sounds as I made my way to Fran & Oli’s house, which turned out to be ideally situated, right in the middle of the Old City.

The first few days were a dream; unusual experiences, surrounded by intriguing people. I ate well, drank heartily and felt indulgent for the first time since leaving London; Syira as it turns out, is remarkably cheap. I’d planned to stay a week or maybe two, to get through my ‘list of things to do’, so I had some time let my hair down.

Two weeks later I’d barely touched my list. I’d been to parties, movie nights, climbed mountains, played with Shaolin monks, and snuck into an event with the first lady, but most importantly met the local capoeira group; CapoeriArab. This is the inspirational group with whom now I am now involved with in setting up a new NGO.

Capoeira NGO

I’d played a bit of capoeira at CDO in London and loved it; great exercise, freedom of expression, music, dance and rhythm. People were down-to-earth, humble and friendly; Syria was no different.

The CapoeriArab group are an equal mix of girls and boys, locals and foreigners. They teach classes in Damascus, in addition to a series of social initiatives: teaching local kids for free, classes at prisons, and most recently at the Al-Tanf refugee camp. The results they’ve achieved in engaging people and relieving some serious psychological issues has been extraordinary – reported here by UNICEF: In Syria, capoeira helps Palestinian-Iraqi children heal psycho-social wounds

With the Al-Tanf camp about to close, three of the team Tarek, Nadia and camp psychologist Patti, began thinking about what to do next. One brainstorm later the wheels for the new NGO were in motion. Luckily, knowing of my background and enthusiasm for capoeira, they soon asked me to help.

This opportunity couldn’t have arrived at a better time. Free from any obligations to meet anyone at a given time, I now have the chance to ‘go with the flow’. My plans to cycle Africa and visit the orphanages remain the same although timing is taking a back seat to being open to the opportunities that present themselves.

Capoeira rocks; the effect it has had on the refugees has been incredible; and the thought we may be able to take this energy and spirit to thousands of children and communities worldwide is ... off the scale.

Needless to say I’m very excited about this, I’ll write more on my blog about it and hopefully have a website to share with you soon.

Turkish Tales

2009-11-25T21:30:00.005+03:00

A month of myth and mirth through Turkey’s wondrous cities, coast and mountains… lots of mountains. Not short of company; I was met by several of my nearest and dearest for some of the most memorable times of my lengthening adventure. First I had to get there…

I had three days to reach Istanbul to meet my dear friend and Better Life Cycle fundraiser extraordinaire, Rebecca. I had a serious race on; three countries and over 1000km.

I left Albania, raced through Macedonia and northern Greece, arriving in Thessaloniki having covered almost half the distance in 60 hours; eat your heart out L. Armstrong! Despite my marathon efforts time was running out, so I caught the bus to cross the border into Turkey; it felt a bit like cheating but my priorities were clear – without the likes of Rebecca this trip wouldn’t have happened.

Any sense of feeling like I’d skipped a challenge quickly vanished when, 20km outside Istanbul. I was dropped at the coach station; it was rush hour & the only way into town was the heaving motorway elevated 100m above me.

The next 90 mins will standout as being some of the most sketchy of the ride. Honks and hoots came from every direction, cars and lorries whizzed by, disbelief was written on drivers faces as I crossed up to three lanes of traffic to make the junction - all without a map. My guide – ‘head for the Blue Mosque’; much like being dropped in Croydon and told look for Big Ben! Luckily I made it without a scratch and was gleefully reunited with Rebecca.

Istanbul is an ancient sprawling metropolis, ‘it measures time not in days and weeks but in the rise and fall of empires’. It has an epic history that has contended with rulers from all Eurasia, each leaving their mark on the impressive landscape: the Obelisk of Theodosius, the Blue Mosque, the Tokapi Palace, the Grand Bazaar, the Galata Tower, and my favourite the Hagia Sofia.

I could write a whole blog entry on the Hagia Sofia – it left me in total awe. Islam and Christianity are celebrated under one glorious roof; two great forces of humanity and divinity living side by side, friend not foe - to me it was unique and profound. Where Europe meets Asia; East meets West; this wonder from the past evoked an insight into the future, a spectacular and harmonious one.

Rebecca and I moseyed through the streets and sites, sampled the bazaars and cafes; far more content to experience Istanbul than tick the boxes of sights to see. The friendly folk and fine weather all added to exceptional days that will provide a ready smile when the going gets tougher.

I waved goodbye to Rebecca and shortly after to Andy – who’d made his own way to Istanbul but not before he taught me to play backgammon. For the guy who’d started off as ‘Random’ Andy; he was now anything but. We’d cycled for a month without so much as a sour word, pushing ourselves and having lot of laughs – most notably our 1,700m ascent of Mt. Lovcen – ‘Ace!’ …as he would he say.

I wasn’t alone for long; one of my best buddies, Jimi, arrived with Cecile; the bike I’d originally intended to use for this trip. We had a colossal, coastal cycle planned from Izmir to Antalya. After catching up over a nargileh (water pipe) or two and several Efes (quality local beer) – we took the ferry/train service to Izmir and got on our bikes.

The first two days sped by, finding secluded camping both nights, enjoying the coastal views and passing through the ancient Roman city of Ephesus, with it’s stunning and iconic Library of Celsus – although otherwise it left me a little low on enthusiasm.

We’d planned to cycle round the Dilek Yarimadasi National Park; a long lush mountain peninsula. Having got within 5km of the point, we were turned back by the National Guard. Rather than cycle back 40km we opted to cycle through a hiking canyon and over the mountain; 11km of rocky, rugged climbing - this proved to be an extreme effort.

We pedalled, pushed, sweated, cursed, chuckled and heaved, as we fought our way to the summit 900m above. Satisfaction wasn’t our only reward; the lagooned coastline beyond was one of the most stunning I’ve ever seen. The rock strewn descent was almost equally as testing, so it was with considerable joy that we reached the tarmac that heralded the end of the test. Put that in your nargileh and smoke it!

The next few days we made our way through Didim; an undesirable English outpost of ‘Full English Breakfasts’ and general tack - then by boat and bike to Bodrum; still touristic but far more appealing. We found an exceptional camping spot for snorkelling, sunset gazing and night-time frolics with the camera; the highlight being an underwater encounter with an inquisitive octopus.

The cycling got really serious as we had some miles to make up; one particularly gruelling day covering 135km of mountainous coastline on our way through Marmaris. We stopped a night in recommended Riviera retreat Ölüdeniz, beautiful but with roads so steep we had to hitch a ride back over the mountain. And finally we arrived in Kaş, elated, exhausted and entirely ready for a beer.

Rather than pedal furiously to Antalya, Jimi & I opted to spend our final day together on a boat trip, which as it turned out we had entirely to ourselves. I’d lost count of the number of times I’ve looked out from the coast and pondered the joys sailing must offer – it was a treat to finally get in on the action. So ended the jaunt and japes with Jimi – he headed off to the airport by bus, leaving the steep 8km ascent out of Kaş for me to pedal alone - a wise choice.

One moment that epitomised the ride and the difference cycling made to it: Towards the end of our longest day’s ride we sought a turning to Fethiye, in the distance loomed a massive rock face. Our legs tired and the pace slowed at the mere sight of yet another gruelling climb. The cliff-like mountain drew nearer, a busy road clinging and scything a steep scar up its side. No turning appeared. By now the rock eclipsed the sun. Going through the mental preparations - ‘time to dig deep’, etc. - a ray of light appeared, not from the sun; a turn. Not just any turn, our turn; the Fethiye turn. We whooped, hollered, laughed and almost cried in relief – ecstatic that this time we’d been spared the uphill onslaught, destined instead along the valley. To anyone else it would have been just a right-hand turn; to us, a moment of ecstasy - only on a bike!

Feeling a little lonesome after Jimi’s departure I was fortunate to catch up with one of my best friends in New York on Skype. (Seamless video conversation at 5000 miles still leaves me… speechless would be the wrong word choice of word… very impressed!) Aside from being a successful city swinger Mel is an ardent supporter of animal rights. During our conversation she caused me to challenge my own hypocrisy at being a meat-eater: the facts about animal welfare being so unsavoury, the effect of beef production on the environment so shocking, and the premature ending of life for my convenience feeling wrong. So it was time to align my beliefs and behaviour: meat was now off the menu.

This decision wasn’t made without some regret, I loved eating meat, only days before tweeting: ‘If you are what you eat, very soon I will become a kebab’. However - this trip especially - I’m trying to challenge and improve myself; learning to adapt is a big part of that, not being a hypocrite another.

The following days I sped along the coast, through intermittent thunderstorms, saved one more than one occasion by friendly locals who gave me shelter. I arrived in Alanya just in time to meet my Sister and her three awesome sons, my nephews; Innes (9), Ibane (7), and Inaki (2). It was so good to see them; explaining to them why I was going away for a year was the hardest thing I did before I left. Successive ‘Why’s?’ can reveal some insightful answers.

Alas they’d not the best week for a beach break weather-wise but we made the most of it; exploring Alanya Castle, the winding coastline, and when the sun did shine I passed on my new found snorkelling skills to a highly enthused Innes & Ibane; great memories!

The time passed all too quickly and before long we were waving a teary-eyed goodbye to one another. I dearly hope to see them again before the end of the trip. Being with them frequently shifted my perception to one less accustomed to the experiences and sights at hand; somehow simpler, fresher and more intriguing. Sure they could be little rascals too but that’s all part of the fun.

By now I was reaching the eastern end of the Mediterranean, about to turn south, a change in direction that will persist – give or take a few westerly wiggles – for the next 15,000 km.

My penultimate night in Turkey was initially soured by being ripped off for an, albeit tasty, vegetarian meal. The seemingly friendly, local chaps I’d met, who’d accompanied me to a back-street restaurant, obviously took commission for their company – not that this was outlined on the bill of course. In this slightly dodgy environment my protest at paying was met with equal, if somewhat dubious, response. So I ended up paying £12 for a meal that would otherwise have cost £3. Although at first aggrieved I quickly realised this was a cheap way to learn the lesson that is well worth learning…

Lesson: If in doubt don’t leave yourself open to being ripped off. Find out the price before you’re committed to paying - ‘politeness’ may be pricey.

My final 24 hours in Turkey more than made up for the night before. Joined by a puncture-prone Italian cyclist, Michele, I decided to take a quiet coast road, over the highway. The road was barely on the map, which was quite appropriate because it was barely there; a gravel path at first high on the mountain side, then a sandy track beside the sea. We had to wade through two rivers, climb over a landslide and ended up camping in an abandoned house; it was brilliant!

The following day Michele & I parted company, as I headed over my final Turkish mountain for the Syrian border. The three hour climb in wind and drizzle hardly seemed a fitting to my Turkish tour. I hadn’t counted on passing a school at the end of the day. ‘Tourista, Tourista!’ was the cry as hundreds of kids ran out to testing their newly learnt English. I felt like the Pied-Piper cycling through their town, kids beside me laughing and joking on their way home; until as the houses grew thinner just one little boy was left. Poetically, his was the last house on the hill; he wouldn’t take the sweets I offered, content to share our limited conversation and to later tell the tale to his family and friends.

My Turkish tale also grew to a close; it had been an exceptional few weeks – despite all the sights, it was the times with my friends and family which made the experience so special. Receiving unfussy generosity from many friendly locals adding a welcoming gloss to it all - perhaps my only regret that I’d not had the time to stop and accept more of it.

The next stop: Syria and the Middle East.

Albania: Bread, Salt and Heart

2009-10-15T11:00:00.003+03:00

Albania is one of those countries that, sadly, has a gained a bad reputation; from where, I don’t know. I cycled across the border with an open mind and the reception was quite unexpected – it blew me away. A beautiful place made more exceptional by its humblingly hospitable people.

Beautiful Chaos

Often when I’d mention I was visiting Albania, the response from folks at home was ‘…really?’, as though I was inviting trouble.

Cycling over the border at Hanii-Hotit it was immediately apparent Albania was a different prospect to the other countries I’ve pedalled through. The road was potholed and worn, strewn with litter, and the only other traffic was a large unaccompanied family of pigs casually trotting home.

After a carefully concealed night’s kip, Andy and I headed for the northern city of Shkoder. Speed was low, discomfort high; in spite of that the instant warmth of the Albanians made the journey a real treat. Virtually everyone we waved at responded with a big smile. Grouchy old faces would light up, buried hands, rise high and with them a unique sense of welcome I’d not previously been afforded.

Shkoder presents a beautiful chaos: on the street people congregate in clusters, while others loiter with some unknown intent; a large wooden pallet pierces the pavement as though dropped carelessly from heavens; indiscernible shouts ring out; a man walks a bear on a leash, as indifferently as though it were a dog; people touch and trade; rules of the road are abolished, instead a mêlée ensues: cars, horns, pedestrians, lorries and scooters pfutting with the weight of generations on their back. The highway code is: biggest is best. Being on the road was to be blithely flirting with mortality. Yet despite the chaos, as though governed by some divine force, people survive, the city thrives – this is what is so beautiful about this place - it is truly alive.

Humbling Hospitality

The road to Tirana was lined with small farms, so with nowhere secluded to camp I asked a local farmer if we could pitch on his land. His reaction was customarily welcoming and we were soon joined by the whole family – the grandparents, the neighbours and friends. Before long we were at the centre of a jolly and enquiring circle of warm and generous local folk.

It was an unforgettable night, so welcomed we were and lavished with all they could offer… which was quite a lot as it turned out; huge traditional dinner, home-made wine and clear spirits; ominously served from a plastic grenade by the amusingly delirious granddad. Soon another common language revealed itself; the Champions League. They love it, we love it – conversation on this point became feverishly easily. Football is the one language spoken the world over.

The morning arrived; heads were a little hazy, not assisted by more beer and wine at breakfast, along with a sizable mutton broth. Luckily Tirana wasn’t too far away.

Library Books

Tirana was another city bustling with life. We checked into a superb hostel and simultaneously met a Dutch couple; Niek and Sanne who’d been cycling round Europe. They were bonkers; we got on like a house on fire.

Niek & Sanne has also raised some cash to help with a worthy project on their travels. A fortuitous run of events led is all to visit an orphanage run by Bethany Christian Services. We were welcomed by Cathy and Bob, two dedicated missionaries who showed us around; we were instantly compelled to help.

The kids didn’t have anywhere to read or even books in Albanian that the nurses could themselves read to them. On seeing the room we hatched a plan to paint and decorate it, make it comfortable and buy a load of books to help found the new ‘library’.

The following day we bought the paint, prepped the room and with Andy’s help set to it. After a coat or two the room was looking so much happier and we too; almost delirious… we can blame in on the fumes. We then lucked in, finding an incredible kids book store which had loads of fantastically illustrated and suitably sturdy kids books in Albanian.

The following day we finished with a flourish; decorating the walls with bright stickers and posters, adorning the room with some new soft furnishings and of course delivering the books. It was a delight to see the kids faces when the walked in, the older kids were napping but I’m sure it will be a real treat for them too.

Two days and £400 later, we were very chuffed with ourselves & had left a legacy with will last. It felt great to finally put some of the funds raised for the Better Life Cycle to good use – for which I want to thank all those who have donated – hope it feels good to see where your money is going.

Lesson: It doesn’t take a lot of kindness to make a big difference.

Andy and I set off late to make a start on the road to Elbasan and the border with Macedonia. Two hours later we’d climbed another mountain greeted by another spectacular sunset. Another kind chap called Hasan let us sleep on the floor of his restaurant, just as well, camping on a mountain can be tricky.

The following morning we were greeted by a stunning dawn and a welcome descent to the city. If a dawn can make an industrial city look this good you have to marvel, because up close it was pretty unsightly.

Waves and smiles lined our route to the border, up one more gruelling climb and on to the picturesque Lake Ohrid – a fitting finale to the unexpected treat Albania had proved to be.

‘Bread, salt and heart’ is a phrase in Albania for what all people have in their home – from this experience it couldn’t be more true.

Lesson: Don’t let unfounded opinion sway your thoughts, if you want to learn about somewhere or something speak to the people with first hand experience.

With the repression of the communist state now a memory, tourists are starting to return and the Albanian people seem overjoyed to welcome them. Like anywhere Albania’s not without its problems – corruption in particular is an everyday issue for many – however if you give it a moment the country and the people will quickly charm you.

I have a strong wish to return and I hope you might now be more inclined to pay it a visit too.

Former Yugosalvia; Existing Wonder

2009-10-04T16:58:00.005+03:00

After meeting up with ‘Random Andy’; a new cycle companion in Rijeka, northern Croatia and Eve in Split – the next few weeks were primed for some shared adventure, mis-adventure and chuckles. Croatia proved a fascinating host and Montenegro… lets just say we got a little upgrade from the tent, before a final test; cycling up a vertical mile to conquer Mount Lovćen.

After a Tour-de-France style stage – racing 130km from Ljubljana – I met ‘Random Andy’ in Rijeka just in time to catch an overnight boat to Split.

Andy contacted me through Facebook after hearing me interviewed on the George Lamb radio show. Having been sketching out a cycle tour of his own; he was keen to join me on the road to Istanbul. It seemed to me anyone who’s keen enough to cycle and camp their way through the world, in search of adventure, is likely to be an interesting companion; ‘Nice! See you at the docks at five o’clock’.

We were soon in a rain-kissed yet nevertheless picturesque Split. I pedalled off to meet Eve, a good friend and avid cyclist from home, at the airport. After rebuilding her bike we cruised back into town & checked into a cosy little hostel right in the centre of town.

Split has great charm; a relaxed ambience and great deal to appreciate, without being overrun by tourists. Pauline, a friendly fellow guest joined our posse & we spent a few days moseying around the mazy marble streets. Going up the Deoclician Palace tower at sunset and visiting the house of master sculptor Ivan Meštrović were real highlights.

Andy headed south to meet some friends, so Eve & I boarded a boat to the elongated island of Hvar. The journey was pickled with views of the islands, whetting our appetite to explore. On arrival we paused to adjust Eve’s bike, I discovered I’d lost my Leatherman somewhere – Shucks! – first item of the trip & a darn useful one. The ride to our campsite quickly atoned for the slight pang and before long we were pitching the tent in an idyllic sea-front spot.

We stayed three days, mostly accompanied by a wonderful German couple; Hannah and Jan. We cycled several sizable hills, snorkled amid the clearest water in isolated bays and loved every mintue. The island feels like a rocky Roman throw-back, covered with Olive, Fig and Pomegranate trees.

Dubrovnik was 200km, one ferry ride and a few more considerable climbs away. Eve and I covered the distance in two days, with an overnight stay on the sliver of coastline Bosnia clamed during the Balkan war. It was a classic ride - one that my imagination had convinced me was worth crossing the Alps and Dolomites instead of simply following the Danube, on my way to Turkey – the reality repaid in spades.

Dubrovnik is a tourist mega-magnet par excellence and with due cause. The old town is like Split on steroids – more marble, bolder buildings and tourist troupes to match. Had it not been for our early morning meander around the city walls almost every view would have been obscured, ancient ambiance made unappreciable, and appeal lost. By 9.30 the cruise ship crews had arrived and the previously tranquil main street, became a hive of twitching lenses, gaping mouths and muted argy-bargy.

Lesson: Its always worth getting up early to get the best of a spot, be you a tourist or surfer the average tourist won’t make the dawn patrol.

The two standout moments of Dubrovnik were not to be found on a postcard however. We were first welcomed into the home and terrace of a local lady, Emma who had lived in same home in the old city for 50+ years. She made beautiful traditional shawls and shared some of the her history, kindness and wisdom with us. Eve and I both felt like adoptive children in her presence.

The other more sombre moment was the sign showing the damage and devastation caused during the shelling of the city by the Serbian-Montenegrin forces. The extent of the was shuddering but more astounding the recovery the city has made.

Montenegro now beckoned and a stay at Mrshe Palace in Perast. Some years ago I had put together the website for this gorgeous holiday home and thanks to the generosity of Liliana and Malcolm Glyn, we could stay for free for a few days. Quite an upgrade from the tent!

Rejoined by Andy, Jan and Hannah – the five of us spent a blissful few days, recharging the batteries with barbequed food, swims out to the islands and general frivolity amid our plush surrounds. Fish, meat and beer were incredibly cheap and I finally got a chance to finish a few of the books from small library I’d hauled the last 2000km virtually untouched.

After waving of the others Andy and I planned our ascent of Mount Lovćen; a climb to over 1,700m from sea-level. The ‘Black Mountain’ is the wonder after which the country of Montenegro finds its name. Atop was the tempting prospect of a mausoleum carved by my new favourite sculptor Ivan Meštrović.

After prolonging our departure one extra day - easy to find excuses to stay in a palace over a tent - we set off early on our climb. Passing through the old town of Kotor we began what Lonely Planet described as ‘one of the world’s great drives’ up the mountain. On a bike with 50kgs in tow it’s a smidge more difficult but on rounding the last of 25 hairpins later the sense of achievement was a match for the view.

The self-congratulation quickly diminished when we realised quite how far there still was to go. The 25 take you the first 1,000m or so the rest is straight uphill. Had we seen this from the start we might have taken the coast road. Cue much sweating, puffing of cheeks and leg pumping – we were determined to make it. My adrenaline received a much needed boost after finding and climbing through a treacherous yet alluring fissure inside a massive cave.

After about 5 hours we made it! The view didn’t disappoint we were insanely high. We both agreed that had we seen where we were in the morning we wouldn’t have thought it possible, yet there we were, with Montenegro before us. The Meštrović mausoleum also provided an unexpected moment of wonder; the most sonically harmonious room I’ve ever been in. If ever you go, wait til its empty and just hummmmmm…

Lesson: Sometimes its better not to know the scale of the challenge, keep focussed on what lies right in front of you and keep going; when you reach an end the result can surpass what you’d thought you were capable off.

We camped in the national park, despite the other proclaimed residents; bears and wolves and the following day made for the border with Albania. The countries of former Yugoslavia were a delight to travel through. Recent times have been a dark stain in their history but the future, from what I can see, looks stunningly bright – like Arnie, I’ll be back.

Bends, Bikers Bars, Borders & Balls

2009-09-25T13:34:00.005+03:00

Italy had arrived; my arse didn’t hurt, I’d had no punctures, not got lost and been enjoying literally minute. Time to crank up the challenge; add mountain passes, one charming yet inexperienced cyclist, sprinkle with burly bikers, garnish with unchartered territories and serve.

Cortina was truly spectacular; imposing mountains surrounding a bowl-shaped valley which soaks up the sun. Vivi and the family Moretti showed me their customary hospitality; chatting, drinking, and eating handsomely for a blissful couple of days.

Bends

The day to pedal on arrived. Vivi, a somewhat novice cyclist by her own judgement, waited nervously as I updated my blog and cruelly faffed about. Faffing complete and bags packed it was time to roll, quite literally, down the mountain. It’s hard to imagine a better cycle path; freshly paved, jaw-dropping views and downhill all the way.

The afternoon ride went without a hitch and we’d made a start up the ominous Passo Mauria when we found a spot camp. This was not just any spot, this was picture perfect. We’d found flat mown ground on the mountain-side, views of the valley, nice dry wood on hand for a camp fire, all under the soft purpley hues of the setting sun. For Vivi’s first night camping ever this was a five star experience.

On waking the prospect of the remaining 600m climb loomed large. If my mountain experiences to date had taught me anything it was to take it slow and steady, and that we did. The quiet weaving road was dappled with light and extraordinary views, as we appreciated it the ascent crept by.

Then we were there; the top, the summit, the most daunting leg of the ride complete - cue photos, video and any other means available to capture the achievement and elation of the moment.

Biker Bars

The downhill was most satisfying, accompanied by yet more impressive vistas. We followed the valley through the afternoon to our intended camping site – some 80+km away.

By nightfall however we were still on the road. Vivi completely unfazed by it all pushed on until we’d reached our destination… only to find no campsite existed, had ever existed or was even nearby. The messengers of this information were some burly blokes at a biker bar. The messengers became our saviours when they offered us a spot to camp in their beer garden; that’ll do nicely!

Lesson: despite tough exteriors, bikers seem quite as friendly as everyone else - see anecdotes about books and their covers. (Now I’ve taken to giving the biker bands a big thumbs up with a response rate I’d previously have baulked at)

The following morning we fixed the flat tyre Vivi had picked up and pushed on up the valley. We climbed slowly for the best part of four hours, tough work on the legs after the previous day; without the glory of a pass to set sights on. One proper stretch later we were feeling grand while a peering granny watching lost an eyebrow to her hairline.

We neared the Slovenia border by Tarvisio (another biker haven), and used the opportunity to stock up on carbs and provisions. On leaving the town we stumbled upon an innocuous cycle path which turned out to be a real beauty, following an old railway line, straddled by mini waterfalls, valley views and tall pines.

Borders

We passed into Slovenia, through the now redundant border post. The sun was setting behind us and bathed the still magnificent valleys in an idyllic light. Not rusting the map alone we had a quick encounter with some friendly locals which sent us off in the right direction of the campsite. The wonderful cycle path (D2) continued and we were a couple of highly contented cyclists.

The following day we peddled to the picture postcard town of Bled; just 30km away. An ancient church sits amid the lake on a small island, making for a pretty stunning centrepiece to the already impressive mountain backdrop.

After pitching our tent in a superb campsite right on the lake, we gave the bikes a rest and rented a boat. We both took the oars around and to the island and back; it was great fun. The water was fresh but not freezing, so we went for a dip and I took on the newly christened ‘Bled Challenge’ swimming out to the island and back.

The final day’s cycle a mere 65km took us through lush landscapes; before satisfyingly reaching Ljubljana. Vivi had completed her leg, and what a triumph it had been. We had both admitted our trepidation about how she’d cope with the ride and the Passo Mauria; as it turned out we needn’t have worried.

Lesson: if you can take your time, riding is rarely strenuous; if you’re feeling tired, take a break… you’ll get there - so get out there!

Balls

Central Ljubljana was a fitting tribute to our efforts. The city, particularly along the river is welcoming, vibrant, and cosmopolitan. It is a well preserved and charming nest of the Bavarian regency and well worth a visit.

We moseyed round, took in the sights and ate well, particularly the ‘gelatos’; supreme ice-cream to vie Italy for its mantle. Our last supper was at a traditional Slovenian restaurant. The menu translations revealed an ‘exotic’ local delicacy; I was inexorably drawn to trying.

Lesson: if eating a dish of origin you wouldn’t normally touch or even go near, remove from your mind what it is that’s going in your mouth from the taste; especially when eating bulls testicles!

You can do it! Brussels to Cortina

2009-09-08T16:27:00.003+03:00

The first two weeks of my ride have flown passed yet looking back they have been crammed with more new experiences than I’d encountered in the past few years. The ride and the adventure have well and truly begun.

‘You can do it…’

I would tell myself, calling on the spirit of Lance Armstrong to keep the legs pumping to up a mountain pass – at the end of a long day.

You can do it

The realisation that in spite of having no cycle touring experience, I’m not just hacking the life as a tourer but thoroughly enjoying it. I remember reading: ‘hardship is just an adventure wrongly considered’ and that’s the ethos I’m employing; enjoying the rain and mountains as much as the sun and valleys.

You can do it

My message to you. There is a world of wonderment sitting right on our doorsteps. I couldn’t believe how many fascinating sights there were so close to home. Cycling is a great way to see the world. You needn’t be overly fit, have an expensive bike or even experience. Get a map have your own little micro-adventure, I have no doubt you’ll be rewarded with satisfaction and a zeal to do more.

Brussels to Cortina

The first leg over the next 10 day schlep was time to train. I hadn’t made much time to do extended cycles fully loaded before I left, so I decided to make haste, put the pain on the legs and at the same time save money; the euro isn’t as friendly as it used to be.

Hills

Leaving Brussels heading for Luxembourg, hills appeared and they rapidly grew in size. I gulped. I hadn’t really planned for this, the route I’d chosen was more based on places I’d like to see than the terrain involved. Fortunately help was at hand. Wim & Veerle; two wonderful folks I’d never met, agreed to put me up for the night. After feeding me like a king then generously helped me plan my route a little more clearly for the next week or so; a serious blessing. Not only did this mean less hills and quicker progress but nicer routes to cycle too.

Off I went (details for the cycle enthusiasts) storming along the RV6 cycle route in Belgium, through Bastogne; the site of many epic WWII battles – I have to recommend Band of Brothers drama series at this point, seeing that then cycling through really gave me a poignant appreciation of my surrounds.

Valleys

I seemed to on to a winner on river valley cycle routes and so I continued, down the stunning Saar River valley on the Saar-Radweg cycle route, though Saarbrucken and counter-intuitively back into France to cycle through the picturesque Vosges National Park. I camped under a stunning array of stars surrounded by towering trees that formed a procession along the roadside.

The following day I was back into Germany, again by boat crossing the Rhine near Wissembourg. Here I learnt my first serious lesson: if it’s 30^oC+ and super sunny, cover up and take it easy; I didn’t. I was hit with a mild bout of sunstroke. Fortunately Alice a local lady from Karlsruhe guided me on to a tram to Pforzheim where I could find a good place to camp for the night.

I’m not into taking alternative transport if it can be avoided but I actually wanted to ride the tram and the 20km journey was hardly a major shortcut. I’m glad I did. Two soothing Slush-Puppies later I was over the nausea and had found a great spot to stealthily camp by the Nagold river. I slept in my hammock with the water gurgling next to me, by morning I was in much finer fettle.

The next few days I flew down through Germany along the Nagold, Neckar and Iler river valleys – still camping all the way. The high point was reaching the top of a hefty 17% gradient hill after cycling 120kms already that day. I won’t lie, I had to push, nevertheless the determination to get there and the relief at the top was a great feeling of achievement. I was really working myself.

Mountains

The Alps appeared late one night after another 100+ mile cycle. Fortunately the dazzling and somewhat daunting spectacle was eased by the another AoRK (Act of Random Kindness); being given a delicious pizza free by a very friendly delivery place outside Kempten.

The following morning the rain arrived; not drizzle, proper heavy rain - we’re talking torrents on the roads not puddles. However with my Ortlieb panniers bound up tight and my rain jacket on; it was a fun. The mountains looked so mood and mysterious, it made for some cracking photos.

More AoRK abounded when twice in one day the German then Austrian police escorted me off roads not intended for cyclists. One time I knew; it was motorway (which looked safer than the sketchy A-road) - the other I didn’t, too busy gazing at the scenery to see the sign. Both times the police spoke English asked where I was going: ‘South Africa?...’ after looking startled, then seeing my sincerity, they chuckled and sent me on my way. No fines, no nothing. Thanks chaps –quality policing.

Still amid the rains I was ready for my first pass – the Fernpass; height:1280m. I decided to not to push my luck, avoiding a car-only tunnel, adding another 400m to the ascent. The road was perilously thin and heavy with traffic but I stuck to my guns and took the space I needed. You can do it Danny, I’d repeat to myself – and sure enough with the rain flowing in the opposite direction I did.

Flying down the other side was a delight. Open road, hairpins and speed – woohoo! I was lost in happiness and the sense of achievement… but hold up a sec … shiiish… ; a car took a bend on the wrong side of the road, my side. I slammed the breaks; the car flew by; but the incident wasn’t over; the bike slid out from under me at 45kph! I slid down, and with adrenaline pumping pulled myself and my bike out of the road.

The following day I took it a little more steady, made my way to Innsbruck and checked into the relative luxury of the Youth Hostel. It’s a beautiful city… in the centre at least (as with so many; on’t judge a city by its suburbs).

My date with my friend Vivi beckoned, so the following morning I was off for yet another pass. An 800m+ climb to the Brenner Pass. Head down, tunes on, legs pumping, job done. Italy; I have arrived.

The next 24hours flew by, collecting a few more passes en route; and stumbling upon the somewhat bizarre region of northern Italy that feels more like Germany – not two cultures I’d imagined fusing.

The final valley to take me to Cortina was unlike any other, simply breathtaking beauty. I couldn’t stop stopping to take photos. This Italian detour to meet Veronica and visit Cortina really was worth it, for the views alone.

Shortly after, having coasted into Cortina – I was met by the enthusiastic and incredibly hospitable welcoming party of Vivi, her brother Andy and his awesome kids Kristina and Marco. Three bowls of pasta and a good chat later I’d really arrived. Time to put my feet up!

A flying start

2009-08-27T12:11:00.004+03:00

The day arrived, 22nd August 2009 and my adventure began. After teary farewells, I rode to Canterbury, into Belgium under starlight and by day three arrived in Brussels. The 377km/234miles have flown by. The bike’s running well, my butt ‘aint too sore and I’ve been blessed by some uncannily good fortune.

Day 1: Au revior

The night before the ride, I’d felt calm and spent the evening with my Mum and aunt, pottering as they cooked up my last supper. Despite the lack of nerves, and seeming readiness I still only managed four hours kip, leaving me a little bleary eyed in the morning, as I was waved off by a few faithful friends and family. I’m not one for goodbyes – save the fanfare for the finish … if/when I finish!

The weather was kind, sunny with the odd shade casting cloud; a good omen.

My first concern was how I was going to cope with the weight on the bike – circa 45kgs - my departure was the first time I’d had all the kit packed on. After the weather had done me a favour I didn’t want to wobble into a wall to start; better concentrate I muttered mutely. My blushes were spared … but I still had the hills to think about.

I was joined for the first day by Rebecca and for the most by Martin, an old colleague. We wound our way through London stopping at Greenwich Park to look out over London, grab a bite to eat and bade London farewell. I’d never seen the famous vista in person before, it was stunning.

Blackheath Hill and Shooters Hill, not small by any estimation. Cautiously I slipped down through the gears and got the legs spinning. Sure I was moving slow but I was making it and without too much effort to boot. Phew! The bonus was the other side of the hill hitting 64kph/40mph on the way down – wahoo!

We followed the A2 out toward Canterbury and found a delightful cycle route on the way. Traversing the South Downs was more hilly than anticipated… much more hilly. They should really be called the ups and downs. Nevertheless after a pit stop or two, as the sun was heading down we made it to out campsite, just in time for the last orders at the local pub.

Day 1 of 400 (or so): done! It had been an emotional, relieving and memorable day. There’s more to see than I’d thought right here in the UK.

Day 2: Night rider!

After a much needed lie-in, Rebecca & I packed up camp and set off for Canterbury, over yet more might mounds. After a quick lunch we said the last goodbyes and headed for the coast. I was on my own.

I had two hours to cover 19 hilly miles to make the ferry. The start to solo cycling included a hike up a super steep embankment to get back on the A2, pushing through bushes and having to pack and repack the bike just to lug it over the 5ft fence; a bit of a rude awakening but not bad enough to dent my spirits.

The miles were hot and furious but I made it. Rolling into the docks and buying a ticket for the 6pm ferry then sweet talking my way onto the one two hours earlier, courtesy of a car break-down on the on-ramp. My luck was their despair. C’est la vie!

The ferry journey seemed to symbolize the start of the journey into the unknown and with the last of the phone calls home, I wistfully wrote my first journal entry: “Having wanted the solitude for so long, finally getting it feels is causing me to draw breath”

Through flat France I rode on to the border keen to get some miles on the clock. Passing the last French campsite near sundown I decided I’d be able to find one just inside Belgium. Two and a half dark hours later I was still riding.

With my head torch low on battery and having forgotten my front bike light I was cycling and navigating by starlight; it was wonderful– I had the country to myself. All the sounds and rustles of nature seemed amplified as the Belgians slept. I felt a sense of pride at not losing my cool or feeling forlorn, this was mini-adventure and I was loving it.

Eventually I snuck into a campsite and after scoffing yesterday’s left-overs promptly passed out.

Day 3: Belgium, Brussels, Brilliant!

I left the campsite in a hurry, it wasn’t worth staying … or even paying. The showers broken, and facilities non-existent so I saw it as I was a little creaky for the first few hours but a midday stop and snooze, after refuelling at the worlds most awesome patisserie in Koolskamp, saw me right. Not long after hoping on the bike I was joined by Norbert a 77 year old local cyclist on the way to see his daughter. “Wher rre you headit” – he cooed as he pedalled by me, Brussels I said, “Follo mi” he replied and off we went.

He took me through Tielt giving me a WWI history lesson; it was the location of the German headquarters, as well as showing me the magnificent belfry. A simple yet poignant Act of Random Kindness (ARK). It was a real pleasure. Only three years ago he’d cycled to Italy, just goes to show keeping active keeps you young.

I passed on through various towns, arriving in Gent, to which I decided to give myself a unguided cycle tour. It’s a picturesque and varied city, I enjoyed immensely. Going round without a guidebook really meant I could just take it in without feeling like I’d missed out on anything; I’d recommend doing it. If you want to know about something ask a local- easy! Plus less books to carry; I have seven as it is.

After a whistle-stop last 50kms I arrived in Brussels, cycling in to the magnificent vista of the Basilica. I’d never seen it up close, it’s a geometric masterpiece. So many curves and lines drawing the eye around it’s considerable edifice.

A light rain shower gave me a much needed wash down and set up one of the most vivid sunsets I’d seen in a long time, showing Brussels at it’s finest. I decided to put my camera (Canon D450) through it’s paces, with some pleasing results.

I met several like minded photographers, one of whom, Luxembourger Laurent, has given me a great list of places to visit in Slovenia; such is the euro melting pot Brussels is.

After spending an inordinate amount of time snapping the local version of the imperious Arc du Triomphe in Cinquantenaire, I found my way to my friends place and celebrate with not a beer but Ribena; a sign of the times. Happy days.

The last hours before the off

2009-08-22T04:31:00.002+03:00

The countdown is drawing ever closer to zero, there is just 6 hours to go before the off. The pipe dream is about to become a reality and it feels fantastic – I’ve achieved a lot just to get here. Now the fun, pain, joy, loneliness, and adventure begin.

I’ve had been in a state of calm for the past two weeks, neither excited or anxious just feeling mentally ready to go. Materially I was still a pole short of the proverbial tent. Equipment sponsors hadn’t turned up with much although I must thank Strada for the odometer and Bradt travel guides for the essential Africa Overland travel book.

However other folks have been very generous:

Sumitomo Chemical – have agreed to provide 300 mossie nets free for the orphanages – thanks in particular to Adam
Red Inc – another Adam and more good vibes we’re hoping that this ethics and responsibility first business will come up trumps on the drawing/writing materials for the Educaid boxes
Andrology Solutions – a male fertility clinic have sponsored £300 and frozen my sperm free for 2 years. I hope we can help promote awareness of the impact of prolonged hours in the saddle

The fundraising and Educaid boxes looking good I now had to get a wiggle on to buy the kit I’d need for the big adventure. I spent up a bit of a storm, in retrospect I may have got a little carried away with new gear but having been so frugal with my cash for so long, it didn’t feel too bad having the materialistic monkey on my back for a while.

The kit has now all arrived and been carefully stowed away and the excitement is bubbling through my veins.

The extra few weeks postponing the start has really worked out well and given me a chance to spend some quality time with my family and friends. I was particularly chuffed with the notes, ode, poems and dirty ditties arranged by Rob that so many people contributed to.

Now it’s time to bid you adieu as I’m off in just a few hours time. This time tomorrow I’ll be in Canterbury, in my tent and 1/300th of the way to Cape Town – I can’t wait!

The final countdown

2009-07-22T17:16:00.014+03:00

Less than one month to go before the big off. Plans are taking shape: I've been in touch with the orphanages, agreed times to meet people in foreign lands and drawn up a lot of lists - my heart is definitely beating faster!

A month has passed since the '£100k in a day' fundraiser; it’s gone in a flash! After the exhaustion and exhilaration of the event had subsided – I was still stunned at the how incredible the day was and how equally lucky I was to have so many good friends; just look at them all! These faces and everyone else who contributed - most likely you too - thank you.

My intended agenda would have had me setting off prematurely; so I decided to give myself another few weeks. Most who know me know I’m not in a rush to hurry things. August 22nd it will be, as the dates to meet up with Vivi in Italy, Sam and Eve in Croatia, and Rob in Jordan – are now locked in; very exciting!

Above all else the extra time has allowed me to give the arrangements for content and delivery of the Educaid boxes, it’s the most important thing to me to get right.

Nevertheless the next four weeks will be challenging - having never done anything like this before, things I anticipate will take a few hours can end up taking days. A lesson in preparation for me. I will get there.

The big task right now is to source and procure all the elements for the boxes... as well as the equipment I need too! I say procure because ideally I don’t want to buy. I’m hoping you and others will take a look at the equipment the orphanages need and help us to procure it as cheaply as possible, or free.

Please give me a hand -you can help us make the most of the funds we’re raised:

Look at this list of things we need to improve the kids lives
Send this email to a few friends or companies that may be able to help
Enjoy the feel good factor, you've just really helped out

Please try, send just a couple of mails. 10 minutes & you’ll feel good inside about it, I guarantee it.

Out of left-field, something about this song I have to share with you: Pedir o Axe - Mestre Acordeon – a capoeria song I’m deeply enjoying right now.

So it’s four weeks today, better get a move on… good luck with the emails ;)

£100k in a day - the best failure ever!

2009-07-02T16:12:00.005+03:00

The build up had been intense; the busiest week of my life - frantically changing venues, co-ordinating support, sorting auction lots, lodging world record attempts, contacting the media… and finding a Union Jack jockstrap! The result was nothing short of spectacular! Friday 26th June - ‘£100k in day’, it had boldly been called. To most this seemed a pipedream, how the hell are you going to do that? I had my plan. YouTube – how to make £100,000 in one day Without a moment to pause the clock ticked past midnight and the email campaign launched. Hundreds of primed friends and contacts, received the ‘Give 5 – Tell 5’ message; simple. Facebook and Twitter followed suit. Job one done, while the city slept. Disaster! Ken’s laptop bombed! Vital web updates – nil! I’d wanted at least five hours sleep it ended up being more like 2. Along ‘Mini Mike’ from Goodwill Gadabout we sorted it. Fingers of fury flying over the keyboard! ALARM! Two hours of sleep but the adrenaline kicked in; first stop Wimbledon Tennis. Alastair Grant a journalist met Mike, Eve and I for a few photos to accompany his story. I sheepishly stripped down to my GB Jock for the first time. Within 90 seconds someone I knew walked past! Cue mild embarrassment and attempts to validate this behaviour with furious gestures to towards the Better Life Cycle banner behind my bike. We hurtled along the queue, receiving cheers, donations and bemused glances. A good start! Next stop Marble Arch, to set a new World Record! 20+ awesome and generous friends volunteered to help on the day. They’d hauled ass up to town for a 9am start … on their day off. It was a massive relief to see them all there. Legends! The Club Blue Room lent us our skates for free and we tentatively made our way across to the famous arch. Most hadn’t skated in more than 10 years… I was glad to be on the bike. The very spurious World Record I’d applied for was ‘the most people towed by a bike’ – at the high point I think we reached 20. It didn’t matter, we all laughed so hard trying, the tenuous nature of the record paled into insignificance. We got what we wanted some cracking photos for the papers and everyone in a good mood. The next few hours flew by in a flurry; a great radio interview with George Lamb (01:13:40); running in and out of shops getting free auction lots; decamping to our floor in Sound; getting a random caricature sketched out; more jockstrap exposure and the whole team really coming up trumps. By this point we were well past £10,000 and looking good for more. The live streaming had turned out to be a bit of a technical shocker, so to liven things up we planned my long overdue haircut… and some other less well advised activities followed suit. As a bizarre means of gratitude I’d allowed the volunteers to vote in secret on my hair cut. So I sat down nervously in the hairdresser, still adorning only a thong, with no idea what would happen to my beloved bouf! As over 70 people watched this bizarre spectacle online, my hair fell and gradually Mohican appeared… albeit a relatively tame one. I later found out an extreme mullet, a Friar Tuck and a Shaolin had been proposed; I got out very lightly! Trying to push the internet viewings to a viral scale, I accepted the suggestion to get the middle section of a ‘back, crack and sack’ done. It hurt! Not really bad but bad enough to know if I’d had the sack waxed it would have been pure agony. At this point ladies, I’ll take a moment to deeply empathise with you and what you go through to keep things looking ‘Hollywood’ good. Aye carumba! At this point people were bringing in goodies from heaps of shops, getting another radio shout out on Capital FM, busking for cash – the whole nine yards! I was getting strangely comfortable being virtually naked in Central London, greeting friends and strangers alike. Taking people’s email in exchange for the increasingly in demand tourist photo - with said scantily clad cyclist - proved a masterstroke; we got literally hundreds of names and good vibes. With no more than 30 mins to spare, I frantically got the descriptions needed for the charity auction. I planned to make my first attempt at auctioneering a successful one. Jimi and the band were set up, people were in good spirits and the party was filling up. Great to see so many familiar faces, some for the first time in years. The auction went down a storm. Raising over £4500, taking our total to the day to well over £20,000. Not the catchily audacious £100k but nevertheless a resounding success. With the final lot sold, my Mum grabbed the mic – echoing the pride I felt growing in myself. ‘What a man’ she bellowed, everyone cheered, my eyes almost teared! It was a great moment! She’s my rock – thanks Mum. Jimi and his band kept the great vibes going, with virtually everyone rocking it out on the dance floor. The mood was special, drinks flowed, not a mood out of place – with DJ Mylz playing a phenomenal 4 hour set of funkin tunes the night proved to be a stonking success. Slightly overcome with it all I tweeted: “Taking a breath outside the party. Beautifully bewildered by the events of the day & generosity of friends :)” By 4am, Mike, Eve, and I - with whom I’d started the day 20 hours earlier – picked up our bikes and rode home, marvelling at the events of the day. Not without hiccup (lest I start on JustGiving's failure to handle all the donations) but the spirit and contribution of all involved, overcame it all... and in triumphant fashion. The difference it will make will last for years for hundreds of kids, something we can all be proud of. One of the best days of my life!

Time's a tickin'

2009-05-27T02:21:00.003+03:00

My feet have barely touched the ground in the past few weeks. Picking up my new bike; launching the website proper; running the Paris marathon and bringing the plans together for the '£100k in a day' fundraising spectacular. (Workin' it!) I've even registered for a World Record. It is now less than two months til I set off. Preparation has moved into hyperspeed, and I've got nervous excitement pumping through my veins. Plans for the ride itself are much as they were; loose but enough to get by on - the real change has been the launch of the fundraising campaign. Here's a sneak peak at the plan: '£100k in a day' In one month on Friday 26th June, the goal is to raise £100,000 in one day, for the orphanages I'm visiting on my way through Africa. We’re trying to contact as many people as possible on the day, using email, Facebook, Twitter, phone, radio, TV… the full shebang. There’s a lot planned: a World Record attempt, a big charity auction, and a party at The Club Bar and Dining in Soho – and the whole day will be streamed live online. No small feat to pull that lot off but with the help of friends and kind-hearted folks I'm optimisitic we can make it a success. If you can help out or want to come to the party please get in touch or become a fan of the Better Life Cycle on Facebook. No Pain No Gain The physical side of preparation has moved out of the gym and on to the road. I ran my first marathon in Paris, with two good friends Ken and Mich - a bloody knackering experience but a memorable one. I've also been racking up the miles on my new Thorn Raven Nomad. The new bike is solid and rides like a dream, even with an extra 30kgs of weight on board - it runs about 20-30% slower than my racer but all things considered that's pretty good. What's next? This week I hope to get a PR plan together with helpful friends Maddy and Alex - as well as circulating the message and plans of how to help with the '£100k in a Day' challenge. The weekend will be painful. I'm taking part in the ROPARUN the world's longest non-stop relay from Paris to Rotterdam - I'll have to cycle for 24-30 hours in two days... my tough leather seat will really get a chance to wear my ass in! Wish me luck!

Planning the logistics of giving

2009-03-09T13:45:00.006+03:00

What an incredible last few month it's been; more orphanages are on board, lots of great new contacts have been made, and the main artery of my route is mapped all the way from London to Cape Town. The tangible change energy around the plans for Better Life Cycle seems to be an infectious one, bringing with it great new ideas, opportunity, and enthusiasm from all quarters. The focus of the last month has been on the logistics and planning; putting fundraising to one side for a the mother of all blitzes in the final two months, before the off. I have shored up the charity with whom I will raise the sponsorship; Good Karma. I met two of the founders Jonny Knowles and Matt Sayer a few months back to ask for their advice. They successfully founded an orphanage in India of the back of their Good Karma Drive; driving from London to India. Inspiring stuff! Now we're working together. Planning the aid A number of people have rightly enquired how the funds raised will be spent, so I've been scrutinising the plan with the help of some people with first hand experience. All the orphanages I’m visiting have been recommended by networks of friends, who have worked for and can vouch for their good management. I’m in contact with them and am discussing with them in what would be best to include in the educational aid box I hope to deliver. The surplus funds will be used for longer term projects -paying local suppliers directly to try to minimise funds being misappropriated. Ultimately education seems to a good focus because it helps people become more self-sufficient and is sustainable. I have deliberately avoided food and medical supplies as a short term initiative like mine would only breed greater dependency. I’ve tried to be pretty conscientious in the management of the ‘giving’ – hoping to avoid just making myself feel good to the potential detriment of the cause. It’s not perfect but feels to be and seems to be received as a positive goal. Filling in the gaps Other practicalities of the ride are falling into place - I've had all sorts of jabs; Meningitis, Rabies and Cholera. I most approve of the Cholera vaccine; a drink that tastes like summer pudding; now that's innovation! I'm still short a courier sponsor - I've made some good contacts but no real headway with TNT or DHL who appear to be the only couriers servicing all the remote areas I'll be visiting. So if you know anyone or have any ideas as to how I may get a courier firm shored up, please get in touch. OK - this blog post is getting way to long. Thank you to all the folks I've met recently whose enthusiasm has been so motivating. Next steps: event planning, website re-launch, and spending some quality time with 'Cecile'... the bike!

New Year's Revolution

2009-01-12T20:25:00.002+03:00

Happy New Year. The last month has seen enough over-sized portions and refills of the glass to last for two Christmases... which it will have to as this time next year I intend to be crossing the Sahara! The result of all the guzzling is that I have done about half what I had hoped over the last month or so. So with a fresh calendar comes a renewed purpose, to get back on the bike and get this show on the road! In between duvet-covered mornings progress has been made on a number of fronts; getting a decent corporate sponsorship overview produced; setting out a fairly rigorous plan of action; reading the essential 'Adventure Cycle Touring Handbook' by Stephen Lord in addition to Al Humphries': Mood of Future Joys about the London to Cape Town leg of his round-the-world cycling adventure; and laying the foundations for the website proper. One new idea bestowed on me by Rob (my best friend of 25 years) is to hold a big fundraising event six weeks or so prior to setting off. Hopefully with his connections in the entertainment industry and a little help from our friends, we should be able to capitalise on the immediacy of departure and the conviviality provided by a well-stocked bar. Requests for donations to the charity auction will soon follow. Fortunately I have also had a revitalising week away in Fuerteventura, surfing, not cycling. The weather was mercifully accommodating with sun beaming down most days, although a little too windy for good surf; I should have guessed from the name of the island literally translated as strong winds. Right time to burn some of those calories now; off to the gym and new regime to build up the strength and endurance to get me to Sudan for Christmas.

Fundraising success: taking tips from Obama

2008-12-04T06:07:00.011+03:00

Its been another incredible week; with lots of positive support flooding in and better still the first corporate sponsor - Celerant Consulting - where I work! This may seem like an easy win but trust me, I had to work for it! Nevertheless £3,500 and a raft of additional publicity is now assured! For the past few years Celerant have donated a generous sum to the most popular charities voted for by employees. There is a designated list of worthy and recognisable charities, and vitally this year the option to nominate a charity. On seeing this my eyes widened! After an initial tour of the office and group email - I was looking less likely than the Lib Dems to secure the popular vote. Ticking a box is much easier than typing in a name - this was going to be harder than I thought! One day to go: 40 votes behind the leading nomination. I ended up sending more personalised emails and phone calls on the final day than most people would in a month. Fingers of fury, flying over the keyboard and delving into the address book, doing my best to secure one of the top two most lucrative spots. The tide seemed to be turning! After a butt clenching extension, the results we finalised & I'd done it - not without the considerable assistance of my supportive colleagues. The first official funds secured - 3.5% of the total - chuffed hardly covers it - I was, and am still ecstatic! What a success! I felt like I'd learned a few lessons from Obama: don't be complacent, set out a vision, make it easy to respond, personalise an emotive message and keep campaigning right to the last!

Explore - a weekend of inspiration

2008-11-27T03:18:00.008+03:00

What a weekend! The Explore conference at the Royal Geographical Society was nothing short of brilliant. I met and learned from some of the most intrepid and interesting adventurers, film-makers and scientists alive today. To top it off I was given an amazing bike! Genuinely one of the most inspiring weekends of my life. Friday kicked off with a chance to look through the RGS library and maps. After a few hours researching routes through south-eastern Europe I'd come no closer to choosing the easier route along the Danube or the one that originally inspired me, along the beautiful Adriatic coast. After four hours I needed some perspective. On entering the bar the first person I saw was Dan Martin - who has just completed a shudderingly impressive cycle from South Korea to South Africa - through the 'Axis of Evil'. http://www.koreatocapetown.co.uk/ Now to be honest I didn't like this guy before I met him. Why? Well he's already ridden from London to Cape Town and what's more he's 6'5 - one inch taller than me - totally stealing my thunder! Ego looking to be unique; flattened! Jokes aside meeting Dan was fantastic - he gave me heaps of good advice in exchange for a few beers, then out of the blue offered me his bike! Awesome! (Apparently he doesn't like cycling - go figure!) The weekend continued in the same thrilling vein, with lots of fascinating lectures on subjects as diverse as fundraising to film-making. The cycling workshop was superb and provided me with the sort of advice that will save me days on the road. Big thanks in particular to our well peddled hosts: Hallum Murray Al Humphreys – http://www.alastairhumphreys.com/ Rob Lilwall – http://www.cyclinghomefromsiberia.com/ Jessica Hatcher – http://www.cycleoflife2008.com/ It was great to meet so many positive people doing original and challenging things. Inspiring and motivating – I’d recommend the Explore conference to anyone.

Pushing the right buttons – Website Launched

2008-11-20T12:44:00.002+03:00

As the planning for the ride continues, the last ten days have seen a real breakthrough. The website http://www.betterlifecycle.com/ is now launched! If you’re reading this blog on the website that much may be self-evident – just allow a moment to eulogise! Ken my good friend and former business partner, took two days off work solely to help me get the site up and running. What a legend! In truth he was doing more of the hard work than me – I make things look pretty – he’s the nuts and bolts man that makes the site work. So if it looks crap blame me – if it doesn’t work … no, that wouldn’t be fair ;) The highlight of the two days was trying to make a video for the page. We both decided it would be a bit dry to talk straight to camera, so instead the plan was hatched to film me on my bike – the question was how to do it? Ken had moment of genius pulling a flat head mop and masking tape from the cupboard with a mischievous chuckle. 3 yards of tape later we had a mobile camera unit and over to the park we went for filming. I can’t imagine too many of you have tried riding a bike a using a mop to film yourself, while giving a pitch and remaining coherent. I struggled. It didn’t help that every punter I passed looked totally bemused. It took me quite a few circuits to get it right, interspersed with near crashes with tourists, and several takes ending bugger bugger bugger! The final cut ended with me wiping my nose with my hand and finishing in a bye bye that would be better suited to a Disney character. Stay classy San Diego! The site will continue to evolve, with Kenny’s ever-present assistance. Next step is to get the sponsorship pages up and running! Tomorrow sees the start of the Explore conference at the Royal Geographical Society – a fantastic chance to meet people with experience of planning and undertaking all sorted of adventurous adventures! I have a lot to learn!

A little spark required

2008-11-10T13:17:00.002+03:00

Over the past few weeks, things have been a little up and down. One great success: finding a charity to raise funds through has been counter-balanced by the weight of the task at hand. Its a little daunting chipping away but after a month, with not much to show for it. I was hoping that the bike ride itself would help me focus and get some passion flowing back through my veins (a little lacking of late) but it seems like I'm going to have to make that transition a lot earlier if I'm even going to make it as far as the start line. On a positive note, meeting Caroline McFarlan of the charity Kids Charities was a real blessing. We have provisionally agreed that I will raise funds as an appeal for Kids Charities – allowing me to collect gift aid as well as benefitting from Caroline’s contacts and experience, as a long-term devotee of fundraising. Over the next few days, a good friend of mine Ken has offered to help get the first phase of the Better Life Cycle website launched. He’s actually taken time off work just to help me out – what a star! Not only do I benefit from his programming guru skills but the motivational kick up the arse couldn’t have come at a better time. In fact so many people have been really helpful – Lisa for introducing me to Caroline, and finding a contact for an orphanage in SA, Dorthe for telling me about the invaluable Explore conference coming up for expedition planning, and Nikki for introductions to multiple contacts volunteering across Africa. With a little help from my friends I’ll get there – thank you all. Now it’s time to get cracking and get this site launched!

London to Cape Town - where to start?

2008-09-22T19:19:00.005+03:00

Wow! I'm going to cycle from London to Cape Town - that sounds pretty darn impressive... or difficult, depending on how you look at it. Right now I can't even see the start line. Clearly it's a bloody long way (about 12,000 miles initial estimate, using string and a newly acquired map), going through somewhere between 25-30 countries. I also intend to raise £100,000 for tens orpahages with hundreds of children, I'll visit on the way. Lots of numbers! But the most scary number right now is one. One is the number of people involved. One is the number of long-distance bike tours I've done. One is the number of years it will take do. You'd be forgiven at this point for thinking I am also one slightly deluded dude. Delusions aside, I am really doing this. I recently told my bosses my plans and my intention to leave next year. That is pretty final. Fortunately they're a decent lot and have let me work four days a week to plan the trip. Today was my first free day. Why? To see the world, challenge myself to breaking-point, and hopefully make a tangible, positive difference to world, if only a small one. What's next? Get the website up and running: www.BetterLifeCycle.com - an essential way of connecting with people I meet and putting a presentable face on this idea (it'll be more presentable than my face that's for sure); make contacts for the orphanages I intend to visit; and finally get an action plan together to make it happen. This is my first blog - let me know what you think. I feel pretty pumped about it; this sure beats working! With a lot of help and a little luck, this should be the start of the greatest time of my life and hopefully make a big difference to lots of deserving kids too. If you think you can help in any way get in touch through the site - thanks for reading.