Snowy caps and coal black mirages

Switzerland!
May 19th






Mind ........ definition:

That which is responsible for one's thoughts and feelings; the seat of the faculty of reason.

Explosion,........ defintion:

The act of exploding or bursting something or ......a sudden great increase.


This entry was very close to being a pictorial account as I could see no way of writing what it is to have cycled the days I have cycled in Switzerland.

It all began with the donging of bells from somewhere out of sight. Then it all became clear, like cycling through an episode of Heidi, It was tyhe sound of cattle. The ladies wearing nicely pitched pings whilst the male moos had wallop-ing affairs. At first I felt it only right to cut them loose of this torturous existence, for every grass chew produced a dong. Cycling past suddenly produced a cacophony of a thousand church steeples as inquisitive heads were jolted in my direction. (I have stopped mooing at them now, I think it was just a phase)

What with all this cow dongling the Swiss border must be close. Within 15 minutes it appeared through the drizzle.

That morning I woke to head for my first international border ‘sur ma velo’ I pee’d 5 times before setting off, then 2 twice on route. I was nervous ! Every bend on the steep sided country lane had me peer ahead for signs of custom officials and stripy barriers. Was this the correct road? Then through a veil of mist it appeared (it was raining). The office of officialdom was closed, a normal occurrence for me now. A raised barrier next to a drooping sodden Swiss flag surely meant I was free to enter. My first passport christening shall have to wait. It was just me and my tripod, which kindly took my picture as evidence of this monumental occasion. I cycled between the 2 countries 3 times to savour the moment. The significance and pride of such occasions may dilute a little as I head East but that 10 minute ceremony was all mine, on my own and I’ll never forget it.

For over a year in planning and penny saving, the mountains have always been there as a driving force and motivation for me to follow the front wheel of a bicycle around the world. I was now within a few days cycle from the highest peaks .......maybe 5 pees within 1 hour is not that many after all?

An interlude In Bern before the ride into the mountains

There was a lesson well learnt on expectations in France regarding champagne mush and misery. Alas the alps were too engrained in my excited mind to dampen or control. The hope of wonderment was there and from now on I would continually search the horizon for a peek at a peak!

A few days later and There they were, capped in a muddy sunset brown stretching accross the horizon. It was all I could do to stop, I was emotionally stammered. It had been 2 weeks since Shepherds Bush roundabout and here I was transfixed by a dream, and it was truly vast
For the first time in living memory a tear ran from my eye. I lay the bike down and just sat and stared. Then the laughter started, it was great and it kept re-apearing (and still does).

I would raise my cap and look at what I was approaching........

and I would laugh some more.

From that point on I knew this is what I should be doing. The alps had given me everything I needed and put to rest any doubts that I really was mad to be cycling round the world.

I am a very lucky and content young man.

I realised that evening I had been institutionally writing “day off” when not cycling, when in fact for the most part I was twiddling my thumbs and itched to do some more exploring. No longer would I be writing "day off" in my log book. That first view of the Alps had me yearning for more!

I had set a glorious goal of going skiing whilst I passed through this marvelous land and Suddenly an opportunity arose. I could catch a train followed by a cable car to the highest point in Europe, 180 Swiss Francs was all it took. I cycled the same round about repeatedly turned round then forgot which side of the road I was supposed to be on, woops! headed for the Bahnhoff then stopped, delved a little deeper and......... this went on for over an hour, studying maps, routes, reasons and motives.

I cycled away from the Barnhoff to another summit, My legs were a little displeased with the decision but suffice to say I was happy with the direction (literally) I had taken. If carrots taste delicious after carrying them 60 miles, I am sure catching a train to the top of a mountain would turn them soggy!

To side track a little and with no offer of an apology at repeating my self or my rotten language should it emerge, but it has not stopped bloody raining since I entered Switzerland. I am constantly teased by hourly stints of gorgeous, sorry mind blowingly gorgeous scenery and technicolour wonderlands (that I still can’t belive I am cycling through) for it all to fold in around me again. Since the first Epiphany that brought a tear to my eye, for the most part I have been staring into coal black mirages wondering if they are mounatins I have seen or more rumbling storm clouds. It has been like cycling along in a shoe box where “someone” graces me with a half hour of reckoning where I can actually see where I am. The effect is quite overpowering, when a sheer vertical drop or monstrous peek is suddenly de-misted in front of my little wheels.

I have looked back through my notes and noticed there has been only 4 days in 3 weeks where there has been no wetness to contend with.

I realised I was talking to the sky when a week ago I imagined myself making friends with that “somone” in the hope ofbrokering some deal of none wetness, it failed and now I am stretched to the “f” word as I contend with 5 hours of cycling through down pours and 500 metre ascents against tidal currents (commonly known as roads).
On the ride to Interlaken I was spell bound for a whole morning of (see dictionary definition) mind exploding scenic wonderment. I can comfortably say it was approaching the unbelievable in its grandeure composition. Then it started raining. WHY? It reached the sublime when the puddles were so deep cars would traverse to the other side of the road. Candle lit lake side hotels entised with there warm glow, and with incredible timing and pinch of surreal madness a scuba diver walked past as I fed on a banana whilst sheltering in a road tunnel. A Bloody scuba diver! I was drenched (again). Lightning struck and the mountains retreated out of site. The whole day ended with a kind offer of a stay in a t-pee tent at the end of the lake. WOW!...............it leaked ! I was forced to put a tent up inside a tent and lie there wondering if a day like that should be allowed to happen.

Tents inside tents.....££$%£$%&%

Phew I feel much better now. My stays in t-pees (is that what they are called?) became more frequent. They were always to found by beautifull lake side vistas and their owners appeared to take a liking to cyclists.

Tranquil morning coffee views, t-pee stlye!

To a solo cyclist it had been of great comfort to be welcomed, waved at and bonjoured too by the French cyclists. I was now amongst sour faced peddlers that would subtly nod, to the point of negligiblity. I have given up any cheery exchanges now and found other amusement which after cycling through the Quite flat capped rural France has emerged as female lycra clad cyclists (on mass), Fantastic! I had everything going for me......a week old t-shirt (which has been banned from the inner tent,along with the socks), oil stained right leg, a max speed on flat ground of 12 mph, and a wobbly cycling style to die for.

I have studied the map spoken to tourist information and think I may have fathomed a route through this veritcal world. As of yet I have done very well. Navigation has been completely different to that of France where Chis (a friend suggested the name, wierdo !) would point me South East and there would be a road. Here it is all about numbers, and 4 figure ones at that. There are so few routes to negotiate that altitudes must be closely observed. The numbers represent torturous climbs or freewheeling joy past lakeside beaches and sweat free cruising. One must be carefull as these numbers hide themselves amongst such trivial map details as place names or church symbols. 2 days ago a 1 hour cycle turned into a 3 hour clamber all because the graphic designer chose BOLD type for Lungern. Luckily I have noticed a civil law of gradients throught out this amazing place, which sits just inside my right knees capabilites (the suffering bits are taking it turns.)

After making the decision to Cycle to the top and seeing the unbelievable beauty of the mountains and lakes from down below I am now itching to see the world from up on high.

The infamous, alpine Passes loom.

Glen.

P.s. The Last ski day is May 28th. I had best get peddling.

Yipeeeeeee!

P.P.S. This blogger program is rubbish, I seem no longer to be able to add pictures.

These may work if clicked on?

The "Frothing French Man"

May 14th 2006

Once again I find it difficult putting the previous weeks cycle into coherent sentences. Each day feels so big that time moves at a snails pace and my thoughts by the evening are only a colorful blur.

I should begin with a long standing British tradition, the weather, of which I am slowly learning to understand. The skies of London always seem shaped as letter boxes, searching to see a horizon through narrow streets. I now spend all day looking at huge skies . and I search them with eagle eyes for signs of rain. I have been plagued with the stuff since leaving Reims. At around 5 o’clock without fail I hear rumbles then all becomes dark as I race to set up my tent, which is still wet from the previous night. I have started talking to myself as I trundle along which I am finding most enjoyable. The whole affair becomes rather energetic when once again the rumblings begin. The constant drumming of rain whilst I lie in my tent has been a real annoyance.

Floods as I dip into valleys.

Only tonight, for the first time in a whole week am I able to sit outside as I quaff a glass of red wine (only 80p!)..... marvelous.



The lie of the land soon changed after leaving Reims. I was now traveling through the land of Champagne growers. As I am sure will happen often, my expectations of rolling hills strewn with vineyards, sun bleached soil and offers of free champagne tasting were sadly not met. In short it was miserable. The fields were a mushy pulp with a few straggles of somthing emerging from the soil, wrapped in sharp rusty wires. I could only just make out oncoming road signs through the screen of water dripping from my yellow cycling cap.(translate yellow to a more honest shade of brown) All thoughts of enjoying a champagne and porridge breakfast were truly squelched.

As an aside, I recently read of a lady who has toured many miles on her cycle. She recounted her morning ritual of porridge preparation with dousings of honey to finish. I have now become a porridge fan in earnest, and it is truly a great way to start the day. It is a heavy food but literally worth every gram in morning morale boostings. I have just finished the box brought from Shepherds Bush, does the rest of the world eat porridge?

Apart from the region of Champagne mush I have been blessed by days of truly glorious cycling. The subtle nuances and shifts in the land as I have traveled toward the alps has been everything I had hoped. It has all passed by at a now whopping 10 miles an hour average speed, just to repeat, YES! that is a double figure, a big one zero, average miles per hour.)...anyway to continue........

Of all the conscious reasons for embarking on this voyage, seeing these changes have fared highly on the list. It makes me very happy to be cycling through my first one.

All across France the rural nature of things has been continual, but within this, each day has seen nuances that only an overloaded wobbly cyclist would care to notice. I have spent whole days passing road side chip vans, hours examining the sadly obsessive garden windmill exhibits or watching the strange behavior of cattle as a cyclist passes them going moooooo (honestly they really do take notice) I have traveled so slowly it is impossible to miss the progression of things.
Tiny forest tracks and miles of canal tow paths have seen me cycle past as I peddle South East towards my first international border. Whole days could be spent without hearing a car. The most frantic things would become were cap raising, bonjour’ing anglers or passing canal boats. How things have changed since my morning commute through rush hour London traffic.
On numerous occasions during this tranquil tome cyclist would shimmy their lycra (spelling?) forms along side and offer route recommendations or simply ask where I am heading.

A nod to another haggle of cyclists

I spent most of an afternoon chuckling to myself about the man I named the “Frothing French man”. Aptly named as he was literally frothing at the mouth and expelling it all over me as we cycled along in duo.

With my failure to decipher his turbo French he went out of his way to show me the cycle path he was enthusing about........I was in car free land once again. I can only assume his frothing was generated from his huge enthusiasm.

Thank you “frothing french man” it was a great afternoons cycling.

It is still very strange to have a continual physical momentum in my life. This continual movement toward the East has me gripped with excitement every morning, none the less I hope it may soon become a little more familiar in its nature. Already there are moments during the mornings rituals that are begining to feel more normal as I attempt to settle into calmer more copable sense of things. (does that make any sense)

Switzerland now approaches..................

It started with the shapes of building roofs, then the windows too (sad observations I know but I have lots of time on my hands). On the second day small rolling hills which I was now exhaustively familiar had started to grow into what now surrounds me, huge vertical walls of forest. I cannot explain now but cycling through this change over the last 2 days has filled me with such excitement. There is a huge relief that the emotional expectations I had before leaving have already been hugely surpassed. BRAVO ! (And a relief after the disappointment regarding the land of champagne!) In general the largest smiles have been the surprises where there has been no expectation what so ever, indeed a lesson well learnt.................a few more below:

1. Don’t look at the top of a hill when peddling, it makes it steeper.

2. Eating 2 Mars bars in one sitting can be enjoyed, guilt free!

3. Bees can fly faster than 15mph.

4. Always put the loo role at the top of the pile inside a pannier.

5. The funny shaped gizmanoids on a Swiss army knife actually have a purpose and the tin opener really works.

6. Carrots taste much nicer when you have carried them 60 miles.

7. Ants have a sixth sense for honey.

On a closing note, everything does seem to be getting easier. The weight shedding process has paused for the moment and the bike is much lighter.

Although the temperature this evening is 22 degrees I have kept wintry warmthness in case the Alps prove to be as chilly as people have warned. Blimey am I really to start my ascent tomorrow morning?

As I look around me at the towering forests I remind myself of the expletives that came forth whilst getting to the top of that little mound known as Biggin Hill...... I am certainly glad of the 2 weeks cycling before reaching the Swiss border. My legs have a spring to them now and the bike is much lighter .................Isn’t it?..........

A truly marvelous cup of coffee, a reward for reaching

the HILL top fort of Langres

A fine sight to see over a mid-afternoon picnic.

Me

Brie and apple sandwich.......It has become a minor addiction.

My first snake encounter .

Reims.

Upon my departure I imagined writing a little ditty every evening snuggled up in my tent, but, as with all things unkown it has turned out very differently. I have just managed to maintain enough energy at the end of the day to errect my tent, cook food and place a log book entry (somthing I promised my self I would do reardless of fatigue!)

So my ramblings for the moment are a collection of thoughts over the last week.

In short, it has been mental, which I guess should be expected. I will try to re-cap briefly the goings on over the last 4 or 5 days (I had to ask somone what day it was today as I had lost track......... BRILL!)

My head started spinning a little whilst on the ferry. Ideally I would be crossing into foreign lands in daylight, nice and early, but it happened to be 9.30pm in the evening through my own stubborness to plant wheels on foreign soil on the second day from leaving Shepherds bush green. To calm my nerves I decided a shot of whisky was in order. The barmans hand “slipped” after he found out what lie ahead for me, it was a full glass of dutch courage, hence my amble off the ferry was a very wobbly one........”stay on the right side Glen!” ........” it was a 3 story spaghetti junction, there was me and a ferry full of articulated lorries. I felt, sorry, re-word that, I WAS very small.

As a note for cycling on the right side of the road. My mind can drift into its own little world, with all the things to look at, let own to think about staying on the right side of the road has proven very difficult, then a T junction approaches and utter confusion sets in. I do hope by the end of Europe it becomes a little more engrained into my wondering mind.

Waking in Calais I slippped out of the campsite so early no one was there to receive payment, “c’est la vie” and at last I could sit in the morning sun at the table of a French cafe order a coffee in French and watch the world pass by, particularly the parts that were going to work (most satisfying)

The journey started in ernest as I clipped my feet into the peddles to leave Calais, my head was spinning with a total lack of comprehension as to what was unfolding infront / inside of me. Once again I became very nervous, with no reall ability to focus on the street and people around me. That is when the compass (I’m thinking of giving it a name, is that wierd?) which I had only brought as a gadet one “should” have if in lands unkown, instantly started telling me what to do. If I arrived at a T junction pondering over a left or a right, the compass would say, "you need to go East" or "south!" and so began the simplicity of my navigation.

I had made it into the roling lands of Northern Fance, and it was quiet. To a Londoner it was apocalyptically quiet. I had always wanted to choose the back roads on my trip South but every village I passed through exhibited very little signs of life. I suddenly remembered what I had been told about population density etc....... man, it was quiet and by the second day I loved it. As long as I could find a shop selling water every so often all was well. In fact I re-descovered the old Northern tradition of wishing random old men in door ways with walking sticks a very good morning. After a while I positively relished the next village where I may chance upon a a flat capped man whome I can raise my hand and say “Bon jour”, always to be returned with a smile
and some slightly more complicated reply!

A beatifull secret camping spot which promptly

turned to a pool of mud after torrential rain

For Sale only 350,000 pounds!

As an aside to bonjour’ing.(I am in the middle of my second beer after a week of serious mileage and alcohol abstanence)..... I have been welcomed into the cycling family of France by none less than the lycra clad racing crew, of which there are many. They pass me at speed regularly. Despite my severely sweating brow and sub 5mph speed I love the little nod or lift of hand they would give me. Wonderfull. As a close to the subject it has been rare to see any other type of cyclist except men on there own zooming along with go-faster attire, I even seen one overtake me, then pass by, going in the opposite direction about 5 minutes, on his way home?

I realised how little I knew of the places I was traveling through when I started passing War memorials and “Tombes de guerre du Commonwealth”.Emabarrising as it is, things only made sense when one of the afore mentioned lycra clad cycling men (he was 65 years old!) pointed out I was about to cross the River Somme.

The next few days day were spent between the wonderfull highs of zooming down hills at 35mph and passing another tombes de guerre, I literally lost count of them and despite hearing of the men lost in the first world war I had many hours of solitary cycling to think about it some more.



At the time of writing this I have peddled about 350 miles and despite giving away various items to campsite people to reduce weight (which seems to work as payment for rent) 350 miles on a loaded cycle is very different to anything I could have known. My left knee has persistently reminded me of this fact. Just when all was well, and the wind was in my favour (unusuall) it would cry out and force me to shout back “Bl**dy hell”. Other bits of legness seem ok but that left knee has a mind of its own and is always there to remind if I am pressing too hard on the the peddles. Having said that this afternoons ride into Rhiem felt like some invisible cycling force had fitted go faster tyres to my bike. I kept checking trees etc for signs of a tail wind but no, it was all me! Cruising, Saberton style at 18mph.

My very own portable washing line

Here in Reims I have decided to take the day off and sort “bits” out. But alas France is still deserted, it is a national holiday. Typical ! The time I want to treat my self to the world of coffee shops and wine everything is closed!

I have spent the day wondering the streets of Reims and literally stumbled into none other than her lady the Notre Dame, she was huge and absolutely gorgeous. A very calm respite indeed to sit in awe of her size and sup coffee (plus cake, yeh nice). A really did feel a little silly this time, having no idea I was in the same town as the Notre Dame a cathedral I have always wanted to see.

A definate purchase shall be the Rough guide to Switzerland in an attempt to save further self emabarassment.

My goodness, look at the time, so much to ramble about but must dash.

Still wrestling with the reality of things, mais c’est superb!

Au revoir mes amis.

Glen the aching knee cyclist.

No one mentioned Biggin Hill

It is difficult knowing where to start for this first of many entries into my journal and funny to wonder who may read this.

The sun is setting here in France and it is truly glorious weather. I cannot imagine the English channel dividing the weather patterns so greatly, I can only presume it’s a scorcher in blighty too?

I have just completed my second days full cycle. It feels like a very long time since I wobbled onto the Uxbrige road in Shepherds Bush. The wobbling of the Bike was almost definately compounded by a farewell pub lunch and pint (delaying the preceedings some what). The trip out of London was a pleasant reminder of the chaos I was leqving behind. Rush hour traffic surrounded me, my lungs started to hurt with the effort of peddling such a cumbersome weight which moved only with the greatest of force. I could feel my heart rate increasing as my speed slowly decreased. The only part of me to be enjoying its self was my fowl language! I have read accounts of the differences between trundling along on a normal days cycle trip to the monumental peddle pushing required to maintain an upright posture on a loaded cycle. I was not prepared!

Crossing over the M25- Day1



It all started at biggin HILL (capital type is no accident!). it looked like an extended version of Nottinghill, a pleasant climb, achieved with ease. My lungs started hurting, I say this as I have never felt them hurt like this before. They kept saying “ stop! You can’t do this to us, we expect to be trained and nurchered into that of athletic capacity” Man oh man, then my legs went and my speed was dropping below 5mph. It is a funny thing to be a man, wrestling with my ego to then confront Biggin bl**dy Hill on a loaded bicycle. How can one write there first account of getting up a real hill and say “I got off and pushed”.
Walking pace is 3mph and that was my speed for 10 bl**dy minutes. when I reached the top there were 2 Spitfire planes to great me. I collapsed on the side of the road.

It was then I began to notice all the place names with a suffix of ...hill, after which I gazed over the landscape and nearly wept. What a day, oh what a day.

Photo taken after I managed to stand up again



I was a very proud man indeed to discover my first secret den to camp in, doing well to contain my paranoia of being discovered. To be woke by the rising sun and a cacophony of birds was truly wonderful. I sat there with my freshly brewed coffee watching the sun dry the morning dew. Brill !



My very first camping spot


The following day had me place an immovable psychological pin on French soil. The whole thing turned into a 9 hour marathon where I learnt a hundred things about the mentality needed for long distance cycling. For the first 4 hours i never set tyre on flat ground. The whole of South East England appeared to be constant barrage of insane climbs at 3mph followed by giddy high speed descents (I successfully managed to break the speed limit with a huge grin and water streaming eyes).


For a small section before the approach to Dover I enjoyed over an hour of flat ground with a subtle tail wind, my only company being Mozart and the beautiful hedgerowed lanes.

After treating myself to a cycle along the cliffs of Dover preceded by more fowl mouthed knee wobbling climbs I boarded the Ferry, bound for foreign Soil.
I was very nervous, but giddy with excitement.