CYCLE TOURING CUBA

CUBA

 527 Kilometres – 29 Days

29 October – 26 November 2014

Photos

29 October - Montego Bay, Jamaica – Havana, Cuba - By plane

My obvious next destination from Jamaica was Cuba, barely 400 kilometres north of Jamaica. The most economical flight to Havana, Cuba, nevertheless went via Panama, a relatively long 2,000-kilometre detour.

The taxi ride to Montego Bay airport couldn't have been more than five kilometres. Mercifully, the airport had a wrapping service as I doubted whether my homemade bike box, held together with duct tape, would last.

Right from the start, Cuba was a different cup of tea. The first thing noticed was the abundance of space on the plane, quite a rarity in this day and age. One could even spread out to enjoy a little snooze before descending into Cuba. Approaching Cuba, a highly unusual sunset greeted us and one could see well-organised farmlands below (I guess they were tobacco fields).

Clearing customs and immigration was exceptionally easy. Afterwards, I excitedly hailed a taxi to Hostal Peregrino, situated in an old building in Centro Havana. You can imagine my surprise when I rang the doorbell and a key, tied to a string, was lowered from the window above. This marked the start of a remarkable visit to fascinating Cuba. Unfortunately, the hotel didn't receive my email, and all rooms were fully booked; luckily, their neighbour still had space. It, in fact, turned out more convenient with the bike. The family was highly welcoming but, regrettably, only spoke limited English and me even less Spanish. The place was comfortable with a fan, air-con, private bathroom and even a little bar fridge.

Most confusing was the Cuban money. Cuba had two currencies: CUC (1 CUC = 1 US$) and pesos (Moneda Nacional MN) (1 CUC = 25 pesos). The accommodation and taxi fare were quoted in CUC and I guessed it standard practice to quote tourists in CUC.

 

30 - 31 October - Havana

Following a breakfast of fruit and scrambled eggs, I set out, camera in hand, to explore Havana, referred to as "La Habana". As always, nothing was as envisaged, and not all the media reports are accurate.

The 50-year-old American trade embargo was still in place, but that didn't mean Cuba didn't trade with other countries. Havana had a fair number of new vehicles; the taxi from the airport was a brand-new Toyota van. Virtually all cars, however, date back to the 1960s. Of course, not all buildings were old and falling apart either. Still, the old ones were far more photogenic, and one, consequently, got the idea that the entire country was falling apart.

Investigating the old part was best done on foot as the old quarters were blessed with an ensemble of old pre-communist era buildings. The best part of the day was spent admiring these old buildings and exploring the narrow lanes.

I would have been foolish not to drive along the Malecon sea drive in an old convertible, and thought the only thing missing was a bottle of rum.

The next day was spent much the same, only in a different part where gracious old buildings, several already restored, lined the streets. My walkabout took me past colourful cigar-chewing ladies, horse carts and bicycle taxis (not only for the use of tourists). I passed the most realistic human statue ever encountered; made even more surprising by his placement next to an identical statue. Only donating money in his collection box made him move.

Giggling, I made my way along narrow lanes, where front doors led directly onto pavements and where salsa music emanated from about every doorway. Music, dance and art were everywhere in Havana, and practically everyone could play an instrument.

The waterfront made a perfect spot to snap a few pics and grab a bite to eat at sunset. With such an abundance to see, one could easily spend a few days in Havana. I was however keen to get going and planned to return to Havana for a few days before flying out.

 

1 November - Havana – Bahia Honda - 132 km

The section between Havana and Bahia Honda made less exciting cycling. Still, I was delighted to be back on my trusted old iron horse (or iron camel). The mild headwind encountered made the going slow but kept me cool at the same time.

Though the map indicated the road as an "Autopista", the surface was in poor condition and the going slow. The best part of the day was spent cycling past farmlands where farmers still used oxen to plough the land, and the horse and cart remained in daily use. The aroma from a roadside "panaderia" lured me in, and freshly baked rolls made a good snack while snaking along narrow country lanes. A wave of gratitude and joy washed over me for the opportunity to cycle in this fascinating country.

In Bahia Honda, a "hospedaje" owned by Beysi and her family was a real treat. They fed me copious amounts of food, and in broken Spanish, I tried communicating, letting them know where I was from and where I was going - not that I knew exactly where that was.

 

2 - 3 November - Bahia Honda – Vinales - 85 km

After a healthy breakfast of fruit juice, fruit, coffee, egg, and bread, I left my generous family. The bumpy route continued along a minor path, filled with cigar-chewing Cubans on horse carts or ox wagons. As the previous day, the going was slow as the route slowly led uphill along the Vinales valley. The valley was fertile, and my path, hence, littered with fruit stalls where offers, not only of papaya juice but also pineapples, were received, none of which were refused. It felt like I'd a constant smile as my path took me past tobacco plantations and vast limestone karsts until, eventually, reaching Vinales.

Vinales was touristy with literally hundreds of places advertising rooms to let and almost the same number of restaurants, quite a feat for such a small settlement. People came to Vinales to explore nearby Vinales National Park and the valley that has been declared a UNESCO site. A 100 million years ago underground rivers ate away at the limestone bedrock, creating vast caverns. Eventually, the roof collapsed, leaving only the eroded walls we see today.

Finding accommodation was effortless, and the one located was a large and comfortable abode. The establishment had a restaurant that served delicious vegetable soup (and, of course, a "Cristal", the Cuban beer). Plans were on staying in Vinales the following day. Therefore, it was late before falling asleep to a salsa beat in the far-off distance.

The next morning was spent investigating a nearby cave and a tobacco farm where some of Cuba's finest cigars were still hand-rolled. The cave was interesting and said an ancient indigenous dwelling. After a short walk, I came to an underground river where motorboats took one the rest of the way.

By evening, I located an  internet café and uploaded a few pics before falling too far behind. The internet was expensive but far worse was the long queue waiting to use the only seven machines in town. By the time my turn came, I’d scarcely started and was told they were closing.

More frustrating than the long queue at the internet was the hissing sound from the touts. They had a habit of hissing like snakes when wanting your attention, quite annoying, but this was Cuba where things worked differently.

 

4 November - Vinales – San Cristobal - 110 km

Departing my comfortable abode, I followed my nose in an easterly direction, unsure where the road led. The area wasn't especially picturesque and I pushed onwards until reaching San Cristobal. A headwind prevailed all day and hence a relief to reach the tiny village of San Cristobal. Whether the town would offer accommodation was doubtful but, sure enough, it did. The abode had a mirror on the ceiling and I surmised it might not have been intended for a single person.

Still, the family was typical Cuban with trinkets displayed in the cabinet, and photos in old frames hanging askew on the wall. The Cubans had the same family values as the South Americans. Family members and friends were thus constantly popping in, resulting in an endless flow of comings and goings. San Cristobal was a pleasant rural area, nearly like a big farm, where there always seemed a cock crowing and a dog barking in the distance.

 

5 November - San Christobal – San Antonio de los Banos - 85 km

Records showed 24% of the population was of mixed race, 65% White, 10% Black and 1% Asian. Of course, one could easily question these figures as I barely ever saw “White” people in Cuba. Still, then again, race is very much a social construct. If you ask me, the old model for classifying people goes back to the 18th century and is slightly outdated. The so-called “White” people were, obviously, of Spanish descent and many French immigrants who came to Cuba in the early part of the 19th century. Even so, it remained surprising to see blond-haired women in these tiny villages who looked kind of out of place. Maybe I’d been in Jamaica too long.

The way to San Antonio headed past small communities where people went about their daily business. People seemed continuously busy fixing things, and the word “resolver” was easily the most used word in Cuba. These settlements had numerous hole-in-the-wall type shops selling bread rolls, juice or pizzas, all at a few pesos.

The plan was to head to Batabane where one could get a ferry to the nearby Isla de la Juventud. The diving was particularly good off the west coast of the island, but halfway through the day I learned getting a ferry ticket in Batabane could be challenging as tickets were generally sold in Havana as a bus-and-boat combo.

At Guira de Melena, a change of plans made me head the 13 kilometres north to San Antonio instead. San Antonio had a few interesting things to see. Still, I missed the town and landed at a hotel along the highway outside of town. This wasn’t a major disaster and I stayed put. Upon returning to my place, the restaurant served good food and discovered the only English TV channel showed the American election. What a circus! The Cubans must have thanked their lucky stars; they didn’t have to deal with such a spectacle – it could have been precisely why authorities broadcasted it.

 

6 November - San Antonio de los Banos – Nueva Paz - 90 km app

The days were slowly getting a rhythm of their own as I biked up and down hills, through the countryside past tiny settlements, all (seemingly) identical with horse carts, hole-in-the-wall pastry shops, the odd peso pizza joint and “refrescos” stand, where one could fill your bottle with juice at a mere three pesos.

Towards the end of the day, and reaching Nueva Paz, the map didn’t show another village apart from tiny Nueva Paz. To the villagers’ surprise, a foreigner cycled into their little town enquiring about a casa. More surprised than the villagers, I discovered the village amid a festival. I wasn’t sure what the celebration was about, but I assumed the event was important as the only two places with rooms to rent were full.

A hospitable family invited me in, and as can be expected, my stay turned out quite a novelty. Casa particulars or homestays catered to travellers and generally consisted of separate quarters with an en-suite bathroom – all extremely luxurious compared to typical family life in Cuba. Staying in a Cuban home was totally different. Firstly, someone had to give up their bed, and there wasn’t a great deal of privacy as the bedroom had two entrances. One was blocked off with a curtain and led to the dining room. The other one led to the lounge/kitchen area and was fitted with a rickety concertina door. The bathroom consisted of a bucket shower, which I didn’t mind. Toilet paper was far too luxurious, and good ol’ newspaper did the trick. A meal, large enough to feed an army, was prepared and encouraged by the family, I ate far too much. Embarrassingly, I was fed first, and the family only ate afterwards. I hoped it wasn’t their only food.

The family consisted of a mum, dad, grandmother (whom they took care of) and a dwarf daughter. This is only mentioned as it came as a surprise to spot at least three dwarfs in Jamaica (considered excessive for such a small island). The family was super kind, and I regretted not being fluent in Spanish, but at least I could tell them where I was from and showed them the map of my cycle route. They were stunned one could do such a distance on a bicycle (at times, I am equally stunned).

The daughter’s room became mine. Fortunately, the room had a regular bed; only the mirror was tricky. She later offered me the use of her soap, powder and other cosmetics - too sweet. She was immensely proud of having these items. In Cuba, any cosmetic items, including soap and creams, was valuable, and beggars typically asked for soap and lotions instead of money.

 

7-8 November - Nueva Paz – Playa Larga - 100 app km

The way to Playa Larga was along a highway, and the road surface was significantly better, making effortless cycling. Not a great deal was happening, except a few restaurants which made a welcome distraction. Eventually, I stuck the iPod in my ears and turned off to Playa Larga.

Larga was one of the two beaches invaded by the US in April 1961. One could see monuments and signboards keeping memories of the revolution alive. Playa Larga had a bunch of casa particulars lining the shore and, as a result, not challenging to find a bed. The casa chosen provided food, and thus not necessary to move one step; all I had to do was sit on the veranda and watch the bay.

The following morning was laundry day after which I took off searching for a shop selling hair stuff as I lost my comb. Losing things became my superpower, and I was particularly good at it. Instead of a comb, a diving shop was spotted and I was just in time to join them for two dives. Teaming up with two very pleasant and experienced divers, we happily plunged into the crystal-clear waters of the Bay of Pigs. It turned out two beautiful dives, and I was incredibly pleased with the opportunity. The dive was an easy shore entry. About 30 metres offshore was a massive drop-off that reportedly bottomed out at a depth of 300 metres. I didn’t check! Visibility was crystal clear, which made peering over the edge, into the abyss immensely exciting. Fantastic stuff, all at CUC25.

The Bay of Pigs (known as “the Bay of Pigs fiasco”) had a fascinating history. The Bay was where mighty America tried to invade tiny Cuba in 1961. One thousand four hundred CIA-trained men, financed by a US$13 million military budget, landed in Playa Giron intending to wipe out the Cuban Air Force. Castro had been forewarned and had moved his Air Force the previous week. To make matters worse, the Cubans sunk the two US supply ships leaving 1,400 men stranded on the beach. The US government didn’t rescue the poor stranded soldiers: 114 were killed. Later the remaining soldiers were captured and traded at US53$ million worth of food and medicine. A genuine David and Goliath tale, if you ask me.

 

9 November - Playa Larga – Playa Giron - 34 km

At my casa, I met two cyclists who’d come from Cienfuegos. They informed me of a considerably shorter coastal route between Cienfuegos and Playa Larga but, in the process, they picked up 15 punctures between them. I, there and then, decided to take the roundabout way (approx. 130 kilometres). Not being in any hurry, a slow cycle led along the coast to Playa Giron where an “all-inclusive” resort at CUC42 made comfortable digs. Albeit more costly than the CUC20 casas, the price included—three meals and all drinks, from beer to cocktails.

The resort was a strange place, about the size of a small village, right upon the beach but neglected. Only a few bungalows were occupied, the lawn was knee-high, and scarcely anything appeared in working order. The food was delicious and consisted of a buffet lunch, dinner, and breakfast; the problem is one could only eat until one had enough. However, the two genuinely nice cocktails made up for the lack of other facilities.

 

10 November - Playa Giron – Cienfuegos - 70 km

Signboards indicated 94 kilometres to Cienfuegos. The going was effortless as the majority of the day was spent biking along a low-lying and swampy area where the road was in good condition. Now and again, one had to give way to herds of cows or cycle on the opposite side of the road as half the way was used to dry rice or wheat. My odometer wasn’t working but I guessed I travelled about 40 kilometres until reaching a new highway, which indicated Cienfuegos was only 30 kilometres further. I’m always happy about a shortcut and arrived in Cienfuegos earlier than anticipated.

A good few people lured one to their casa particular, and it was a pleasure to give them my business. The prices were all identical, and the accommodation almost similar. The lady where I bunked down seemed pleased she had a guest and went out of her way to put the bike away and made things as pleasurable as possible.

An evening stroll along the waterfront and around the central plaza revealed hives of activities. In the process, I met Jenn and Jeff from Canada (travelling by bicycle). They mentioned they saw me in Vinales. I’m impressed by people who can identify one off the bike without the disguise of a cap and shades. How incredibly observant of them.

 

11-12 November - Cienfuegos – Trinidad - 80 km

I woke to the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, had a hearty breakfast and hopped on the bike to Trinidad, Cuba’s best-preserved colonial town. At first, the route was slightly hilly, but levelled out on reaching the coast, and it became a pleasant ride past scenic beaches and bays.

One meets the most likeable people during one's travels, and this day was no different. I stopped to chat with a lovely couple from Switzerland (if I remember correctly).

Trinidad (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) was swarming with tourists and tour buses. The narrow cobblestoned streets could hardly accommodate all the busses, bicycle taxis and horse carts. Hundreds of casa particulars lined the streets. Soon, I was nestled in a roomy house with a great veranda leading to an enclosed backyard.

A quick shower and I were strolling, camera in hand, together with countless other tourists down the narrow lanes of this 500-year-old Spanish colonial settlement.

In the morning, I emerged to the hustle and bustle of people peddling wares from bicycles in the street outside. In a sing-song way, they announced whatever they had to sell. I hurried to the window and smiled at the scene of brightly coloured buildings, cobblestone streets and old men selling bread from bicycles calling “El pan, el pan!” This was Cuba at its absolute best.

 

13 - 14 November - Trinidad – Sancti Spiritus - 70 km

My path followed the Valle de Los Ingenios, where sugar was grown in the earlier years. Today, one can still see a few of that brutal era's old sugar mills, slave quarters, and manor houses. Unfortunately, the Manaca Iznaga with its 44-metre-high tower, used for watching the slaves, had too many tour busses to my liking, and I didn’t climb to the top; I only took a few pics and departed in a hurry. Nevertheless, albeit several attractions were scattered about, I kept going due to my first experience.

Sancti Spiritus, the oldest European settlement in Cuba, turned out a hidden gem. Smaller than Trinidad, and less visited, the village had several lovely, old buildings from the colonial era. However, as the town had fewer buildings than Trinidad, almost all were renovated and strolling the charming centre was a pleasure.

I came down with a stomach bug during the night and spent nearly the entire night hanging over the toilet bowl. When daylight broke, I was weak and tired and stayed in bed. As the day progressed, I slowly recovered and by lunchtime could face a cup of tea and a plate of fruit. Luckily, Hostal Paraiso was comfortable and the owners accommodating.

 

15 November - Sancti Spiritus – Ciego de Avila - 76 km

Feeling considerably better, although weak (seeing I only had a plate of fruit the previous day), I loaded my mobile home to cycle the short distance to Ciego de Avila. The ride came with a mild headwind, but I caught the slipstream of a horse cart, and we slowly headed toward Ciega de Avila. By the time I stopped to fill up with water, I assumed I’d lost them but soon caught up. There was a considerable amount of laughing and waving, and I’d a distinct feeling they waited.

Ciego de Avila was a tiny place with a few old historical buildings. Unfortunately, a hotel in dire need of TLC was home that night, and even without hot water in the shower, one couldn’t beat the price.

While meandering the streets in the cooler night air, I passed a theatre filled to the brim. The coolest thing was theatregoers still made use of horse-and-cart taxis to and from the theatre. How cool is that?

Still not feeling 100% but having to eat something, I purchased a five-peso pizza, which, as indicated by the price, wasn’t large (US$1 – 25 pesos).

 

16 November - Ciego de Avila – Moron - 40 km

Even though tired, I loaded up and cycled north to Moron, a small town en route to Cayo Coco. I’d no intention of going to Cayo Coco as it was understood the city was packed with all-inclusive resorts. Unfortunately, the weather came in and started raining, which turned out not the typical 30-minute storm. As a result, I arrived in Moron sopping wet but mercifully uncovered a surprisingly large amount of casa particulars.

The Maron was a typical Cuban town. The main road was lined with old colonial buildings, a central plaza, and a few hole-in-the-wall eateries. Yet, surprisingly the town had a grand-looking railway station built in 1923, complete with horse carriages waiting to cart passengers to and from the station; one could have sworn it was 1923. A walk along the candy-coloured colonnade pavement, with music coming from open doorways, was typical Cuban. Old bicycles were leaning haphazardly against walls, and a good few pay-phones were still mounted upon the walls. It felt as if caught in a time warp and I loved every single moment of it.

By evening, villagers placed chairs outside doorways and watched the world go by while chatting with neighbours. What a social bunch the Cubans were. Street vendors magically appeared selling cake and popcorn – one can’t fault a country where cake is considered street food.

 

17 November - Moron – San Jose del Largo - 60 km app

I turned my bike in the direction of Havana, and while a good few days remained on my visa, the time had come to move in the direction of the capital. I read that San Jose had a spa and searched for these magical baths.

The mild tailwind made pleasurable cycling and an early arrival at San Jose del Largo. The spa was slightly dilapidated as the majority of these types of places were. Still, I spent a good hour in the bath, which consisted of a huge undercover one. The pool was right over the spring's eye and had a sandy bottom where one could see the water bubbling up from a tiny volcano.

Afterwards, I met two cyclists from Canada. They had been travelling a year and planned on cycling at least one more. We had a meal together and shared a bottle of wine, compliments of my hosts.

 

18 November - San Jose del Largo – Remedios - 70 km

Mercifully, I’d rid myself of the stomach bug and the day became effortless riding to Remedios. Remedios was one of the first villages founded by the Spanish way back in 1513 and I bedded down at a place right next to the central plaza. There wasn’t much to do in this tiny village besides discovering old buildings scattered around the square.

I’d much time on my hands and, therefore, spent it using the internet before having a bite to eat. Doing the laundry was a mistake as it started raining during the night and nothing was quite dry by morning.

 

19 November - Remedios – Quemado de Guines - 110 km app

Packing my still damp laundry, I headed south. The intention was to go to Santa Martha, but I couldn’t face another touristy town and turned off and cycled along the coast. I half regretted the decision when the rain came; rain which continued the rest of the day. It rained so hard that water couldn’t drain fast enough, and my path soon turned into a mini river. With no reason or place to stop, I proceeded until reaching an area with accommodation. People pointed me to a “hotel” but it had no rooms, only a restaurant, even though it was called a hotel.

In bucketing rain, and sloshing through ankle-deep water, accommodation was located. Still, with digs rented by the hour, I’d to wait until the occupants were done. In the meantime, a restaurant made a good spot to while away the time; besides that, I was starving. Upon my return, the room was available, and I could hang out my wet clothes and change into something dry.

 

20 November - Quemado de Guines – Hotel Elguea and spa - 60 km

As my abode was an hourly joint, no breakfast was included. Still, I was given coffee and a few bananas before getting underway. It rained the entire way, and on reaching the turnoff to a hot spring, turning in was a no-brainer and I headed the eight kilometres down the path, where I arrived soaked to the bone.

The government-run hotels were huge but usually without anyone in sight. Goats roaming the garden looked up in surprise at someone disturbing the peace.

The bedroom was huge and comfortable, and I couldn’t complain. However, the thermal baths were in a separate building and quite hot (approx. 50°C). Hungry and with the restaurant prices reasonable, I first had lunch before entering the baths. The soak was short as the water was far too hot.

Later I repacked my panniers and with little else to do had a beer or two ahead of supper. This time a few more people were in the dining room as workers from the electrical company who worked in the area stayed at the hotel. Even though the restaurant had a menu, they only had one choice, similar to lunch: only chicken instead of beef, everything else was identical.

According to legend, a slave who had contracted a severe skin disease was banished by his owner to what is known as Banos de Elguea. Later, the man returned cured entirely, and a bathhouse was built on the spot.

 

21 November - Hotel Elguea and spa – Varadero - 110 km

Though it rained throughout the night, by morning the weather had cleared. The route was flooded, but a tailwind made pleasurable riding. The touristy beach town of Varadero was situated along a narrow peninsula along Cuba’s north coast and littered with hotels and casa particulars.

Sadly, the weather never cleared, and thus no enjoying Varadero’s famous 20-kilometre-long beach. So instead, I went in search of food, and returning, rain made me rush back before becoming completely soaked. Varadero was only 140 kilometres from Havana, and I was hoping the weather would be kind to me the next day.

 

22 November - Valadero – Playa Hermosa - 120 km

To my dismay, I emerged, not to the tip-tip of raindrops upon the roof, but rain streaming down, more resembling a tap left open. Loading up was with more care than usual, making sure all my stuff would make it through yet one more rainy day. Thank goodness, the rain had eased when I reached the corner shop to have a cup of coffee and the (by then) ever-familiar toasted cheese sandwich.

A tailwind made riding a pleasure, and I caught up to two cyclists from the Netherlands holidaying in Cuba. This was only their second day of riding, and they were taking it easy. We chatted as we pedalled along and, as they were heading to Playas del Este, I followed suit. Then, in the dying moments of the day, it started spitting, and I was happy to call it a day.

Villa Playa Hermosa wasn’t much of a villa but was cheap at CUC13 per person. My room had no hot water, and the TV didn’t work. The place was popular with people from Habana; the music was going ten to a dozen and guests were already far into the rum by the time I arrived.

 

23-25 November - Playa Hermosa – Havana - 25 km

The ride into Havana was short, and, mercifully, it didn’t rain. On arrival at my casa I discovered them fully booked. I considered this a misunderstanding as I booked a room before heading out. The misunderstanding was cleared up when I showed them the booking. All’s well that ends well. I’d two days in Havana to repack my panniers and bike for the long and roundabout flight to Africa, where I intended to spend time with my ageing mum before continuing my quest.

My visit to Cuba was fascinating and it was interesting to talk with Cubans as they were a highly educated nation. In fact, Cuba had about nine physicians per 1,000 people, whereas Africa only had approximately 0.2 doctors per 1,000, a substantial difference. Albeit economically poor, I thought they were culturally rich as theatres were well supported and it appeared everyone could play an instrument.

 

26 November - Havana, Cuba – Montego Bay, Jamaica - By Plane

There surely couldn’t be anything more inconvenient than a 5.30 a.m. flight which usually meant a wakeup call of around 2.30 a.m. When flying with the bike, I preferred getting to the airport early, allowing enough time to have the bike wrapped and pay the bike fee, generally at an obscure office stuck away at the far side of the airport.

My casa owner assured me he arranged a taxi van to the airport. At 2.45 a.m. I tiptoed downstairs and was relieved to find the taxi already there.

Alas, the taxi turned out not a van but an old Mazda hatchback. One could only laugh at the bizarreness of it all as the bicycle was half hanging out the back. I giggled uncontrollably all the way to the airport. The shockless old Mazda splattered, hiccupped and farted black fumes as we bounced over potholes in the airport direction. I feared the bike could slide right out of its (by now) sad-looking box. Not only was the box made from two boxes stuck together in Jamaica and held together with an abundance of duct tape, but it was by then, terribly out of shape and hardly capable of holding a bicycle. Fortunately, we arrived on time and with the bike still in the box.

While the airport had a wrapping service, it took convincing the operator wrapping a bike box could be done. Eventually, the whole shebang was booked in. With everything done, I could relax ahead of my long flight to South Africa. The plan was to visit Cape Town for a month or so before heading to the Arabian Peninsula to cycle a few of the countries on that exceedingly dry peninsula. With this came to an end my cycle ride through the Americas. A journey which took me from Ushuaia in southern Argentina to Seattle, USA and across the country to Boston, with the islands of Jamaica and Cuba thrown in for good measure.

064 CYCLE TOURING JAMAICA

JAMAICA

724 Kilometres - 21 Days

1 October – 28 October 2014

MAP

PHOTOS

 

1 October - Boston, USA – Montego Bay, Jamaica - By plane

I was thrilled as this was the day I was to leave the Americas in search of warmer weather. I packed my belongings into a single bag and Steve was dead on time to drive me to the airport for my flight to Jamaica via New York City. Everything went smoothly except for Delta Airlines charging me for my luggage. Only one carry-on bag was free; the first checked bag cost $25, while the bike cost an additional $150! This made the flight quite expensive, but at least they didn't weigh the luggage.

During the flight, one could see the incredibly clear blue ocean far below. The water was so clear that it was possible to see the sandy bottom. The tiny islands looked idyllic and, then suddenly, there it was - Jamaica!

Before being allowed into the country, I had to purchase an onward ticket. So, I bought a ticket to Miami at the end of November, hoping to give me enough time to cycle Jamaica and Cuba. At the time, the United States prohibited one from flying to and from Cuba, so I had to plan ahead.

Once done, I collected my bag and bike and hailed a taxi to Gloriana’s. Unfortunately, when I opened the bike box, I found that the bike shop had taken the entire bicycle apart. I didn't have the right tools or knowledge to reassemble the bicycle, so I did what I could and then searched for a bicycle shop.

 

2-3 October - Montego Bay, Jamaica

Early morning, I took the bike to the bike shop to fix the derailleur. Once it was reattached, I searched for a swimsuit, as being in Jamaica without one was impossible. I also visited a hairdresser and almost ended up with dreadlocks! It's worth mentioning that when Jamaicans speak to each other, it can be challenging for outsiders to understand what's being said. So, the conversation about my hair remains a mystery.

The following morning, I savoured my Blue Mountain coffee at a Hibiscus-adorned table and felt like a million dollars. So good was it that I stayed an additional day. In true Jamaican style, I lazily contemplated what next to do. Ultimately, I sauntered the short distance to downtown, which sported a smidgen of Jamaican history, and a supermarket to stock up on a few needed items.

Sadly, the slave trade is very much a part of Jamaican history. By the 18th century, Jamaica was one of the most valuable British colonies. However, the conditions endured by the slaves were horrendous. Families were routinely separated, and housing and sanitary conditions were dreadful. Beatings and torture were rampant and many died from overwork and starvation. The life expectancy of an enslaved West African in Jamaica was only seven years!

By the time the slavery trade was abolished in 1807, almost two million slaves were brought to Jamaica, with thousands dying on slave ships. Then, after nearly 250 years of resistance, emancipation from slavery was finally won in 1838. The Europeans were brutal.

Returning, I trundled past numerous beach bars where rum came in all colours, shapes and sizes, but I was in no mood to enjoy this novelty.

 

4 October - Montego Bay – Fisherman’s Inn - 42 km

The weather was already sweltering when I cycled out of Montego Bay. Progress was slow as I stopped at beachside bars to get water and chat with villagers.

Falmouth, a typical Jamaican town with a long history, had a few old buildings. It was still too hot to explore, so I continued along the coast. The village of Rock is home to a phosphorous lagoon, where one can see phosphorescence at night. I opted for the Fisherman’s Inn and waited until darkness to witness the spectacle. Unfortunately, the Fisherman’s Inn was neglected, with scarcely anyone about, but still, I didn’t complain as the room was inexpensive, right on the lagoon and it sported a lovely pool. Luckily, a convenience store at the gas station supplied an inexpensive evening meal.

Later, rain started bucketing down, and the boat never went out. I was immensely sad about the missed opportunity.

 

5 - 7 October - Fisherman’s Inn – Ocho Rios - 77 km

True to my nature, I couldn’t wait another day and cycled to Ocho Rios. The weather was blistering hot, so the going was slow, and the hills I encountered slowed my pace even further. But, at least butterflies darted around my head, not flies as in other parts of the world.

Besides the oppressing heat, the day was fascinating. Past Runaway and Discovery Bay I cycled, where vendors sold the ever-present Jerk Chicken accompanied by rice and beans. In Jamaica, there’s no stopping without someone striking up a conversation. Soon, I was invited to stay the night, but I declined and proceeded to Ocho Rios.

Ocho Rios’ well-located and aptly named Reggae Hostel is a stone’s throw from the beach and right in the town centre. The hostel was pretty laid-back, and practically everyone stayed longer than planned, so I booked a dive for the following day.

The scuba diving was spectacular and revealed the most extraordinary visibility. The water was crystal clear and offered an abundance of colourful fish. So fabulous was the dive, I straightaway booked a dive for the next day as I thought it was well worth the effort and money.

At the hostel, I was presented with a bracelet in Jamaican colours from Sheldon (a kind Jamaican guy) and his girlfriend. How awesome is that?

 

8 October - Ocho Rios – Port Maria - 45 km

I couldn’t stay in Ocho Rios forever, so I made my way along the coast. I didn’t get far before being flagged down and offered accommodation.

The Jamaicans have the most charming way of addressing a person. One could often hear them call out: “Be careful, young lady” or “Hello, pretty girl, you need a room?” even to an old hag like me. But then, it’s not to be taken literally; it’s their general way of addressing people.

The area where I bunked down was pretty rural but offered stunning views and a surprisingly modern abode. As I was operating in low gear, I stayed the night and listened to reggae music and watched Jamaicans rolling and smoking their joints while slowly swaying to the rhythm of the music. I love the Jamaican way, slow to move but quick to smile. Later, I biked the three or so kilometres into Port Maria, picked up food, and discovered that the entire town knew my whereabouts. But then, I guessed a white woman on a bike can hardly slip under the radar in Jamaica.

 

9 - 10 October - Port Maria – Port Antonio - 78 km

The route swung inland over the hills, past rural settlements seemingly untouched by the coast’s lively tourist trade. My path soon spat me out at a beach, from where the way led to Port Antonio. As my bike had problems, I looked for a bike shop, but sadly they were closed. The town was a bit of a dump, mainly because of roadworks, which turned the whole place into a muddy mess.

The next day, I stopped by the bike shop, where the staff adjusted the gears as best they could.

Although I was barely in Jamaica for two weeks, I could easily see myself living there. Its picture-postcard scenery, coupled with the kind people, food, music and culture, made me fall in love with the island right from the start. I sauntered to the marina, savouring not merely the occasional waft of marijuana but the aromatic smoke from the innumerable jerk stands.

 

11 October - Port Antonio – Morant Bay - 75 km

A traditional breakfast in Jamaica consists of saltfish and ackee (a fruit), accompanied by callaloo (a spinach-like vegetable known as marog in South Africa) and a side plate of yam, dumplings, and plantain. Both ackee and callaloo are from West Africa and likely arrived in Jamaica on one of the slave ships. Still, it didn’t make the tastiest of meals for vegetarians.

Again, a narrow, potholed road hugged the coast for practically 40 kilometres until veering inland over the hills towards Morant Bay. In the process, the route passed the famous Blue Lagoon, where I stopped for a dip. Sadly, I didn’t resemble the 14-year-old Brooke Shields in the movie of the same name. Still, the water was as crystal clear as portrayed in the film.

 

12 October - Morant Bay – Kingston - 65 km

Loading the bike was at leisure as the distance to Kingston was short. But, again, the day was a stinker as the path followed the coastal route, which deteriorated the closer it got to Kingston. Mercifully, being Sunday, the traffic was light. But, while slaving up one of the few nasty hills, a bee flew under my cap and stung me on the eyelid.

Once in the city, I hunted down the Reggae Hostel, situated on the outskirts of town but still within walking distance of shops. I was pleasantly surprised to recognise travellers I had met in Ocho Rios (it’s a small island, after all).

The following day, I woke with my eye swollen, virtually shut. A pharmacy provided antihistamine syrup, but it made me sleepy, and I refrained from retaking it. Apart from party, there wasn’t much to do in Kingston, and I only stayed one more day, doing the routine rest day chores and discovering all there was to see in famous Kingston Town.

 

14 October - Kingston – Milk River Spa - 88 km

Instead of taking the main road, I opted for the seldom-travelled coastal route. But, again, the comments and looks I received along the way indicated that not merely was this a less visited area, but a white woman on a bicycle was a rarity.

Milk River, a tiny community sporting a few churches and a large school, signalled the end of the day’s ride. A sign indicated a hotel and spa and “The best hotel in the world”. Judging by the condition of the signs, I didn’t expect much, but I still investigated.

The hotel was intriguing. It featured a few private baths in an old wooden building offering comfortable but sparsely decorated rooms along a creaky veranda. It was rumoured the water provided a cure for numerous ailments and I wasted no time submerging myself. The room rate included dinner and breakfast, something I was happy about as I was ravenous. Being the sole guest, I was treated like royalty.

 

15 October - Milk River Spa – Junction - 44 km

Before departing, I had one final dip in the hot spring before following the coastal path further west.

The route led past God’s Well, a deep sinkhole. It’s rumoured to be inhabited by the ghosts of a Taino maiden and a scuba diver (unrelated) who drowned there whilst trying to establish the depth of the well. A short while later, I stopped at Alligator Pond for lunch. Little Ochi was a popular restaurant where one could order freshly caught fish on the beach. Here, tables were in brightly painted boats upon stilts, and reggae music blared from a rickety timber bar.

Following lunch, I set off up the mountain in the stinking midday heat. The climb was steep, and the way was in poor condition. People called me in to rest and advised me to take a taxi as, according to them, Treasure Beach wasn’t reachable by bicycle. I very nearly believed them as the going was dreadfully slow and exhausting. Upon slinking into Junction, I spotted a guesthouse and called it a day. The place was cheap but comfortable, and I was grateful for the pool in the oppressing heat.

 

16 October - Junction – Treasure Beach - 30 km

I emerged at first light to do the remainder of the climb in the cooler morning air. Unfortunately, I soon discovered there was no such thing as “cooler morning air”, as the weather was already sweltering. There were days I honestly doubted my sanity, and this was one of them. In the heat, I wrestled the bike up the hills. Like the previous day, villagers informed me it wasn’t possible to get to Treasure Beach by bicycle. Fortunately, only one hill remained, and I descended to the coast.

Surprisingly dry and barren, the area looked distinctly African, with thorn trees and goats roaming about.

Treasure Bay was home to a few beachside restaurants and guesthouses. Luckily, it wasn’t “all-inclusive”—there were no lounge chairs on the beach, only a few fishing boats. I discovered a place on the beach and kicked back in the shade for the remainder of the day.

 

18 October - Treasure Beach – Black River - 30 km

A short cycle brought me to Black River, where I bunked down at Waterloo guesthouse, built in 1819 and reputed to have been the first place in Jamaica to have electricity. Black River is a tiny but interesting settlement, providing a smidgen of a promenade and a few old wooden buildings dating back to Jamaica’s early days.

The reason for overnighting in Black River was to take a boat up the Black River and into the Great Morass, a fascinating boat ride featuring plenty of birdlife and a fair share of crocodiles.

 

19 - 20 October - Black River – Negril – 75 km

The following day, my route continued along the coast to Negril, Jamaica’s party town, where everything was overpriced and immensely touristy. Still, the Caribbean Sea’s crystal-clear water lured me in, and the remainder of the day was spent floating in the ocean.

It’s not unusual in Jamaica to see middle-aged ladies strolling hand in hand in the company of a handsome young stud. Jamaica is a place where ladies can rent-a-dread or rastitute, as it’s called. Countless European women have ongoing relationships and return regularly to Jamaica, similar to older European men frequenting Thailand for the ladies.

 

21 October - Negril – Montego Bay - 75 km

My last day of cycling offered an easy and interesting ride to Montego Bay. The road hugged the coast, and I got caught in a heavy downpour. Not bad, considering October was one of the wettest months in Jamaica.

As the rain came pouring down, curio sellers called me in to take shelter, and I wasted no time accepting their generosity. As soon as the rain abated, I investigated the nearby Tryall waterwheel. This massive Tryall waterwheel is approximately 200 years old and still turning.

Once in Montego Bay, I returned to Gloriana’s as it was the best-priced abode I could find. In addition, the next flight to Cuba was only in a week, leaving me plenty of time to explore.

 

22 - 28 October - Montego Bay

Jamaica's temperatures scarcely change from one day to the next and remain around 25 to 30 degrees Celsius year-round. In October, clouds generally gather in the evenings, followed by thunderstorms that never last more than an hour or two. Amazingly, all this happens with virtually no change in temperature.

With so much time, I popped into the nursery, offering many colourful and exotic plants. The tropical Caribbean climate in Jamaica facilitates a diverse ecosystem. When the Spanish arrived in 1494, the country was deeply forested apart from small agricultural clearings. The European settlers cut down the trees for building purposes and cleared the plains, savannahs and mountain slopes for cultivation. New plants were introduced, but, thank goodness, a few indigenous plants survived.

In the days to follow, I walked the streets of Mobay, packed with curio stalls all selling similar items. The interesting part was that on cruise ship days, the prices almost doubled, and it was not a good idea to go shopping on those days. In the meantime, I searched for a bike box but couldn’t find any. So, in the end, I stuck two fridge boxes together, hoping they wouldn’t fall apart before arriving in Cuba.

 

29 October - Montego Bay, Jamaica – Havana, Cuba - By plane

The most apparent next destination was Cuba, barely 400 kilometres north of Jamaica. The most economical flight to Havana, Cuba, was via Panama, a relatively long 2000-kilometre detour.

The taxi ride to Montego Bay airport couldn’t have been more than five kilometres from the hotel. Mercifully, the airport had a wrapping service as I doubted whether my homemade bike box, held together by duct tape, would last.

From the start, it was clear Cuba was a different cup of tea. The first thing I noticed was the abundance of space on the plane, which is quite a rarity today. One could even spread out to snooze before descending into Cuba. Next, we witnessed a most unusual sunset, revealing well-organised farmlands below (I guess they were tobacco fields).

Clearing customs and immigration was exceptionally easy. Then, with the formalities done, I excitedly hailed a taxi to Hostal Peregrino, situated in an old building in Centro Havana. You can imagine my surprise when I rang the bell and a key tied to a string was lowered from the window above. This marked the start of a remarkable visit to fascinating Cuba.

CYCLE TOURING THE USA (2) - PART TWO - SEATTLE TO BOSTON

 

USA (2) PART TWO

SEATTLE - BOSTON

22 May – 1 October 2014

8173 Kilometres – 134 days

 

PART TWO
24 June - 1 October 2014
6473 km - 103 days

Washington (2)
Washington Photos 

Oregon (2)
Oregon Photos

Idaho
Idaho Photos

Montana
Montana Photos

Wyoming
Yellowstone Photos
Montana (2) 
Montana Photos
Wyoming (2)
Wyoming Photos
South Dakota
South Dakota Photos
Minnesota
Minnesota Photos
Wisconsin
Wisconsin Photos
Michigan
Michigan Photos
 Ohio
Photos Ohio
 Pennsylvania
 
New York
Photos New York
 Massachusetts
Photos Massachusetts

 

Washington (2) 

24-25 June -Seattle

First thing in the morning, a short walk took me to the Canadian Consulate, merely to find they had no visa information and didn't know how to collect it once granted. This lack of info left me no choice but to proceed east across the US's northern states until Canadian access was granted.

The weather was most glorious and perfect to join a walking tour, sampling their world-famous clam chowder and feeding seagulls while watching the sunset.

 

26 June - Seattle – Riverbend Camping - 90 km

Unable to cross into Canada, the time came to start the great trek east, first heading south towards Portland and then east via the Columbian Gorge. Looking at the map, it appeared an exciting ride.

Even though cloudy, the weather wasn't cold. The remarkable thing was it was warmer weather in Washington than in San Francisco. Leaving, the route passed the Boeing factory, which didn't simply have a Museum of Flight, but also one of Light and I was sorry I didn't do the Boeing tour.

Being cherry time, my path was peppered by stalls selling delicious cherries and a few sweet ones were bagged for the road.

Heading south on the old Pacific Highway, I came upon Riverbend campsite. The camp was expensive, add one had to pay to get a hot shower; it became the costliest shower that far.

 

27 June - Riverbend Campground – Lewis and Clark SP - 98 km

It rained throughout the night, and on waking, rain was still dripping on the tent, which made me curl up and sleep an additional hour after which the rain had abated. Packing up was a quick affair and following donning rain gear, I hopped on my iron horse for the ride towards Vancouver. Albeit drizzling from time to time, the ride was enjoyable, partly along a bike path that ran through the woods for almost 15–20 miles.

A supermarket made stocking up in Toledo convenient, followed by the regular search to find a camping spot. The nearby Lewis and Clark SP was a lovely place in a forest, although a few mighty strange noises were in the woods. By evening, I zipped up the tent and hoped nothing would carry me away, seeing I was the only one there and their choices thus a tad limited.

 

28 June - Lewis and Clark SP – Vancouver - 108 km

The drizzle which woke me continued all day with the result there were barely any stops, and the camera never came out. So little option remained but to pull the cap down low and head towards the next campsite. Stopping at a Burger Hut to have lunch was a treat, if just to people-watch. Some, obviously, already had a few burgers too many, and the last thing they needed was one more massive milkshake.

It started drizzling once on the road, and I turned into the first inexpensive-looking establishment to get out of the weather.

 

Oregon (2) 

29 June - Vancouver – Portland - 60 km

Vicki, a 365-project friend, who lived in Portland at the time, invited me to visit and packing up was at leisure as the ride to their house was only a short distance. Vancouver's Old Fort begged to be explored and afterwards I looked for a bike path across the Colombia River.

The weather was glorious, and the bike path next to the river was jam-packed with cyclists. A stop at Blue Lake Park, a large scenic area, was a great place to eat my takeaway. People were out and about, kids were swimming, and all enjoyed the excellent summer weather.

Locating John and Vicki's place was uncomplicated and I was treated like royalty by these two amazing people. They didn't simply offer me a bed but treated me to supper at a floating restaurant. Then, at home, we chatted nonstop while my laundry was being done. How awesome is that?

 

30 June - Portland – The Dalles - 123 km

The following day was lovely; the sun was out, and one could even wear shorts. I waved goodbye to John and Vicki and continued my journey along the Columbia River. The way east led through the Columbia River Gorge and followed the Historic Columbia River Highway. The ride was stunning past numerous waterfalls and scenic areas. Vicki packed plenty to eat, and maybe it was those chocolate chip cookies that made me ride to The Dalles, a small settlement along the river.

 

1 July - The Dalles - 32 km

I emerged with a sore throat and could feel a fat cold coming on. I'd no patience for these minor illnesses and was kind of hoping it would disappear overnight. (Don't we all?) Pedalling out of town, a stop at Safeway provided medicine, claiming to clear a cold in record time.

Feeling positively rotten, a meagre 30 kilometres were cycled to the next campsite, a pity as the weather was great and the day wind-free. People informed the Gorge was a notoriously windy area. One could merely hope the wind-free weather would last until the following day.

 

2 July - The Dalles – Boardman - 114 km

Still feeling under the weather, staying one more day was enticing, but my restlessness got the better of me. With the wind in my favour, packing up was a speedy affair. A strong tailwind made effortless riding in the direction of Boardman – a good thing too, as I was feeling downright terrible.

Boardman had a beautiful campsite offering a genuinely luxurious lawn right on the Columbia River. The nearby shops provided a stack of food, but I had no appetite and just ate the salad.

The pedal or bottom bracket made the most ungodly noise and I could only hope it would see me through to the next village, roughly 30 miles further.

 

3 July - Boardman – Pendleton & Shuttle bus to La Grande - 100 km (& 45 miles by shuttle bus)

The next morning, a short bike ride took me to a surprisingly well-stocked bike shop for such a small community. After replacing the pedals, and with the wind in my back I rolled into La Grande early.

As soon as the road left the Columbia River, the landscape changed to vast plains where my path took me through endless wheat fields. Still suffering from a cold and not feeling too energetic, I pushed on over the hills and soon could see Pendleton far down in the valley.

In Pendleton, signs indicated the stretch between Pendleton and La Grange were off-limits to bicycles due to maintenance work. This was however well organised America and a shuttle bus service operated between the two towns. Unfortunately, the bus was only at 17h00, leaving a long wait. Once in pretty La Grange, I weakened at the sight of a motel room which made easy kicking back the rest of the evening.

 

4-6 July - La Grange – Baker City - 72 km

The cold and flu medicine bought didn't quite live up to its claim of relieving the symptoms super-fast and, still feeling dreadful, I continued along Highway 84. Once at the top of the hill, one could see the tarmac stretching miles ahead towards the historic town of Baker City and I'd a strong suspicion this would be the last flat section for a while.

Feeling positively rotten, the Eldorado Inn made a good enough place to spend the night. Being Independence Day, I thought it a pity I felt as awful as I did. Though all countries celebrate their independence, no country celebrated the day with as much gusto as the Americans.

Waking, feeling all blocked up, including a heavy head and a tight chest, there was no point in cycling. Instead, I walked to the shop, got more flu tablets, and returned to bed, where I spent two full days as I was clearly not going to cycle the flu away.

 

7 July - Baker City – Ontario - 135 km

At last, my cold abated, allowing pedalling out of Baker City. The road followed what is known as the Old Oregon Trail. The trail was an old wagon route and emigrant trail which ran from east to west across the country, remarkably similar to the Great Trek in my home country.

The landscape also reminded me of South Africa as it very much resembled the Karoo. The route passed through sleepy hamlets featuring abandoned train stations, a railway line, a pub and church, the only thing missing was a forlorn-looking Pepper Willow.

I followed the Snake River, and with such a name camping wasn't on top of my to-do list. However, the weather was perfect, around 30°C during the day – perfect for cycling. I was on a bit of a downhill run and hence continued towards Ontario - the last stop until crossing the border into Idaho.

 

Idaho

8–9 July - Ontario – Boise - 97 km

Once across the state border into Idaho, my path continued until reaching the turnoff to Boise. Then, being invited by Rachel and Patrick, two Warm Showers hosts, I headed downtown and followed the greenbelt bike path into the city centre. From the city, a short ride led to Rachel and Patrick's home. I've never met them personally and merely knew them from social media, as they were seasoned cycle tourers. Not simply did they have a beautiful home, but they were the most likeable people imaginable. We chatted forever, and I was easily convinced to stay an additional day.

Patrick was born and raised in The Netherlands, and as Holland was playing in the semi-finals of the World Cup Soccer, we visited the pub to watch the game. Regrettably, Holland lost but still, we all had a great time.

 

10-13 July - Rafting

I was further invited to join Rachel and Patrick on a river rafting trip down the Wallowa and Grande Ronde Rivers. This was an amazing opportunity which I grabbed with both hands. The drive to the start, and where we camped, was a long one. The following morning, we packed the rafts with everything needed and took to the water. I joined Bobby (and his dog, Trixi), Gordy was on his own, Rachel and Patrick were in one boat, and Bob, Ivy and Eve (and Bob's dog) in another boat. They were all charming people and we'd a total blast on the river.

The weather played along, and as the weather was in the high 90s, the river was the best place. Bob and Bobby fished from time to time and whatever was caught went straight back into the river.

We camped along the riverbank in the evening, and I was impressed by their conservation efforts as not a single scrap of anything was left behind at the places camped. They were incredibly well-organised, and one could tell this wasn't their first time on the river - even the dogs had lifejackets.

The time passed far too quickly, and too soon the time came to load the boats and return to the city.

 

14 July - Boise

I'd all intentions of using my day in Boise productively and doing something useful, like washing the sleeping bag. Instead, the day was spent playing with the camera in Rachel and Patrick's lush garden and enjoying the novelty of being in a real home. By evening, Sarah (another cyclist) arrived. We’d supper together, after which I packed my bags and got ready to resume my quest anew.

 

15 July - Boise – Glenn's Ferry - 125 km

In the morning I thanked Rachel and Patrick, and had all intentions of turning off at Mountain Home onto Route 20. Still, the wind picked up, and I soon found myself grinding into a headwind. There and then, I made a U-turn and continued along Route 84.

The area was highly desolate and had very little of interest. However, a strong tailwind blew me into Glenn's Ferry early. At the Three Islands SP, the camping fee was astronomical (as Patrick warned) and best to look elsewhere.

Glenn's Ferry turned out a fascinating place. Back in the day the area was one of the most famous and treacherous river crossings on the Oregon Trail. Not only was Glenn’s Ferry steeped in history, but it turned out the home of Equine Dentistry. You learn something new every day!

 

16 July - Glenn's Ferry – Truckstop - 109 km

This was the first day since departing Seattle I encountered a headwind. Unfortunately, my hopes of it changing never materialised, and the wind direction stayed east-north-east all day. As a result, the going was relatively slow. Petrol stations made convenient distractions to break the monotony and fill the water bottle.

Not a significant amount happened, except riding through the Snake River Gorge which stretched almost 50 kilometres and was highly picturesque. The gorge was further known for an unsuccessful attempt by Evel Knievel to jump across using a contraption called a Skycycle rocket! The things people do!

 

17 July - Truck Stop – American Falls - 135 km

Powered by a tailwind, I flew past farmlands and windfarms, indicating the area a notoriously windy one. Finally, route 84 (which I’d been following some time) turned south, and I veered north along Route 86, in the direction of both Canada and Yellowstone National Park. Overnighting was at the small settlement of American Falls, so named after a party of trappers whose boat went over the falls. Poor things.

 

18 July - American Falls – Idaho Falls - 130 km

Not merely did the day turn out one of comfortable riding, but I’d the benefit of a tailwind. From Pocatello, the road headed north through the Indian reservation of Fort Hall and past Blackfoot, which didn't have a great deal going apart from a potato museum. You know there's not much happening in a place that boasts a potato museum.

Dave's Bike Shop, in Idaho Falls, changed the inner tube and discovered what was causing the slow puncture. Not simply did they change the tube but did so free of charge.

I then searched for an inexpensive room, which turned out more difficult than expected. The one located was far out of town, and once the panniers were off-loaded, it took biking into the village on the hunt to find food.

 

19 July - Idaho falls – Warm Waters campsite - 110 km

So monotonous was the ride, one could listen to stories downloaded on the iPod; a novel manner in which to cycle but something one can only do in the absence of traffic. The path east ran past vast fields of seed potatoes and even more extensive wheat areas and, in the process, I met a French family pedalling around Idaho. Sadly, their holiday was soon coming to an end, and they planned on hiring a car to tour Yellowstone National Park.

Arriving at Warm Waters campsite early made basking in the sun the rest of the day. Warm Waters was a popular site and campers were floating on inner tubes downstream, only to run back to repeat the process. The camp had a great location next to the river providing plenty of trees. There were, surprisingly, no showers but I guessed that’s what the river was for.

 

Montana

20–21 July - Warm Rivers Campsite – Western Yellowstone – 95 km

By crossing the continental divide, one entered the state of Montana, and it's understood the name was derived from the Spanish word 'Montaña' (mountain). I, therefore, guessed the ride would include a few hills. Montana ranks fourth in size but only 48^th in population density out of the 50 states in the US. Even more unique is that the western third of Montana contains 77 named mountain ranges, forming part of the Rocky Mountains. I sincerely hoped not all 77 were on my path.

West Yellowstone had a campsite as well as a supermarket, and the following day was spent at camp doing routine rest day chores. The best part of the day was spent lazing about; good thing too, as a storm passed through, complete with an impressive display of thunder, lightning and hail.

 

Wyoming

 22 July - West Yellowstone – Norris campsite - 52 km

I'd a slow start as the day was meant to discover new things and not do distance, and I was bursting with excitement to investigate this unique region. At the entrance of Yellowstone Park, the entry was a meagre $12 (valid for an entire seven days). Soon the road crossed into the state of Wyoming as a significant part of the park is situated in Wyoming. The day was fantastic, and the vistas surpassed all expectations. Yellowstone is truly one of a kind, a place where the earth bubbles, splatters and steams. Geysers erupted in front of my eyes; truly one of the most surreal places I’ve visited.

Camping was at Norris where a British family travelling the area told me an online visa application to Canada takes two months. I then had little hope of getting the visa in time to allow biking in Canada.

 

23 July - Norris Campsite – Gardiner - 42 km

The ride was short but fascinating and included many stops at extraordinary sights. That night, camping was at Gardiner to rethink the route, as the wind picked up, and the forecast was for 35 m/h winds in an easterly direction. The idea of exploring Glacier National Park went out of the window as I’d no intention of battling into such a wind.

 

Montana (2)

24 July - Gardiner – Big Timber - 152 km

The weather forecast turned out spot-on, and the wind grew stronger as the day progressed. With a near gale force wind in my back, cycling was like low flying, reaching speeds of almost 60 km/h - scary stuff. From Gardiner, my path headed north in the direction of Livingston from where it veered east.

Amazingly, once in Livingston, the wind direction changed and remained a tailwind. Arriving in Big Timber was thus in good time, and the lack of camping made me opt for a Motel.

I decided to stay, follow the wind and go wherever it blew me. An additional email was sent to the Canadian visa office, inquiring exactly how long the visa would take and how one would receive it. In the meantime, the plan was to head further east while staying close to the border in case the visa came through.

 

25 July - Big Timber – Laurel - 112 km

The route followed the Yellowstone River and I understood it the US's longest undammed river. Unfortunately, the wind wasn't as strong as the day before, and my legs felt tired following the previous day's long cycle.

On reaching Laurel, I called it a day but guessed one could easily have carried on towards Billings (a further 22 miles). But, as they say in South Africa, I didn't want to pull the ass out of the chicken.

After a good look at the map, a decision was made to head in the direction of Mount Rushmore National Park as I’d given up hope of ever getting the Canadian visa. There was not a single word from them, not even a "Thanks for your payment", just a pathetic automated email stating they had received the application and would contact me in due time.

 

26–27 July - Laurel – Hardin - 105 km & 52 km

The room was cheap, likely due to its location next to the railway line. Still, it was a good deal as the price included a complimentary buffet breakfast. My neighbours complained about the noise from the trains, but I never heard anything.

The way to Billings veered slightly southeast in the direction of Mount Rushmore and was dreadfully monotonous; hot, dry and rather lonely sporting views of endless wheat fields. The single slight bit of excitement was a flat tyre from tyre debris.

The first settlement came upon was Hardin, where a campsite and a few places to eat had my name on them. So, after obtaining the usual evening beer and crisps, it was time to set up camp.

The following morning, after biking nearly an hour, I realised I’d left my solar charger and phone behind and had little choice but to return to camp. Upon my return, I found the owners frantically phoning around to locate me. The Americans were such helpful people. Being already late, I considered it best to stay one more night and was promptly invited to a BBQ.

 

28–29 July - Hardin – Ranchester – 120 km

The going was slow as the ride was slightly uphill and into a mild breeze. However, the scenery remained unchanged as I cycled past familiar scenes of vast areas of wheat fields. The interesting part was harvesting wasn't done by the farmers but by harvesters. I further learned the harvesters working in this area employed no less than six South African youngsters to drive the harvesters.

Shortly before Ranchester, the road crossed into the state of Wyoming. Tiny Ranchester wasn't far, but the ride took practically the entire day. I crawled into camp dead tired—one of those days.

It rained all night, and as it was still raining upon emerging, I didn't go anywhere. The weather later cleared, allowing a walk in the river's direction and onto the old Connor battlefield. It's immensely sad when an entire tribe is wiped out; it’s final and can never be undone no matter how much money you throw at the problem.

Tiny Ranchester had no shop, except a small store at the gas station. Still, the settlement had a gunsmith, a taxidermist, and no less than two churches. Unfortunately, the village was further home to the Cowboy State Bank and I wasn't sure if I would put my hard-earned money in a Cowboy Bank. During my walkabout around the village, I'd two people praying for my soul. I must’ve seemed an absolute wreck.

 

Wyoming (2)

30 July - Ranchester – Buffalo - 95 km

Feeling miles more energetic, my route followed the old Black Diamond Trail, referring to yesteryear's coal mining industry. Although the peak mining years were long gone, some mining was still done in the area.

The road climbed slowly along the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains to Buffalo. Once there, it took pedalling around to locate a camping spot. There were no less than two campgrounds, but both were relatively expensive and, in the end, I settled for Indian Campground which gave a small discount. Then, off to the shops for my nightly rations.

 

31 July - Buffalo – Gillette - 115 km

The weather forecast predicted a headwind, but the breeze turned out not too severe, and around midday it changed in my favour. Unfortunately, the stretch between Buffalo and Gillette was extremely barren, without a hamlet or farm. Thank goodness for a rest area where one could fill the water bottle before continuing to Gillette.

Here I met a family (mom, dad and two kids) who enquired regarding my comings and goings. They were clearly a conservative family and dad the boss, as he did most of the talking while his wife remained one step behind, and the kids one step behind her. One of the first questions asked was "What's your religion?" On answering, "I'm an atheist", the family, in shock and horror, together took one step back. The only thing the man didn't do was spread his arms in a protective gesture to seal his family from this evil force. Afterwards, I was sorry for my reply as it instantly alienated me, and killed a conversation that could’ve been interesting. At times, it's better to go with the flow.

 

1 August - Gillette – Upton - 89 km

My late departure was not merely due to chatting to other campers but mainly due to predictions the wind would change in an easterly direction at around 10 am. I'd an Egg McMuffin and coffee at McDonald's, and by the time all was finished, the wind indeed swung east.

The ride to Moorcroft was a pleasurable one where I threw a left onto Route 16. Before leaving town I first stopped at the tiny West Texas Trail Museum to investigate and then continued in Upton's direction.

Clouds gathered, and with a distant rumbling, I rode as fast as my legs could manage. A sign stated: "Upton, the best town on Earth." The statement might’ve been a tad of an exaggeration as Upton's population was a mere 1,000, and even that number was most likely for the "greater" Upton area.

With a massive storm rolling in, I pedalled like the clappers. Mercifully, I slinked into Upton, which sported the Weston Inn Motel, just as the heavens opened. The owner offered me a room at half-price, making it the same price as camping. He further allowed me to use the washing machine—what a kind man. (Or was it perhaps due to the smell?)

 

2 August - Upton – Custer - 103 km

The following morning the sky was clear, and Route 16 continued past oil fields, apparently the oldest in the area. The oil must be exceptionally shallow as the drills were half-sized. My path continued in the direction of Mount Rushmore and once past Newcastle, it swung east towards the Black Hills. Not simply was the ride hilly and into a gusty breeze, but a swarm of horse flies descended on me and, being uphill, I was unable to out cycle them. Ouch, ouch, ouch!

The KOA campsite outside of Custer, appeared a good enough place but I was utterly shocked at the price—$42 to camp. The Sturgis Bike Rally was on and all campsites full; no wonder the few remaining ones came at a premium. Even sadder was to find they only sold beer in 24 packs. At least the shower was good but what a price to pay to have a shower. I was tired and in no mood to talk to anyone. (As if their fault the camp was expensive, and beer sold in 24 packs.)

 

South Dakota

3 August - Custer (1620m)– Rapid City (976m) - 87 km

The first stop that day was at the immensely impressive Crazy Horse Memorial. The memorial consists of a mountain carving of Crazy Horse (an Oglala Lakota warrior).

The monument is under construction and carved out of Thunderhead Mountain; land considered sacred by Oglala Lakota. The sculpture's final dimensions are planned at 641 feet (195 m) wide and 563 feet (172 m) high. The head of Crazy Horse will be 87 feet (27 m) high; by comparison, the heads of the four US Presidents at Mount Rushmore are only 60 feet (18 m) high. The monument has been in progress since 1948 and won't be completed in our lifetime or the next generation's lifetime.

Then off to Mount Rushmore to see the colossal statues of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt. These world-famous statues were unimpressive after seeing Crazy Horse but, then again, the Crazy Horse Memorial will make anything look unimpressive. While there I understood the sadness in the below article by National Geographic.

South Dakota’s Mount Rushmore has a strange, scandalous history (nationalgeographic.com)

The Sturgis Bike Rally held consisted of 500,000, that's right, 500,000 bikers. The roads were crowded with motorbikes, and all campsites and motels in the area were filled to the brim. Both the bikes and bikers came in all shapes and sizes. The riders were both male and female, all seemingly tattooed from head to toe, and a few of those mammas were big; they made a Harley look like a scooter. The reason for their size soon became apparent as one often saw them sitting, a giant ice cream cone in one hand and an equally large Coke in the other. And there I thought I was the queen of unhealthy eating.

 

4 August - Rapid City - Wall - 89 km

Following a quick bite at McDonald's, my path followed Route 90 in an easterly direction. The road stretched dead straight into a hazy infinity; unfortunately, the wind came up, and it became an unpleasant battle into the wind. Finally, at the tiny, but fascinating, settlement of Wall, I called it quits and pulled in as the campsite was just $10 and considered cheap at the time.

Wall wasn't only situated opposite the Badlands National Park entrance but home to Wall Drug, a famous roadside stop and shop. Wall Drug started as a drug store and grew into what it is today. In addition, Wall is home to a funky Harley Davidson shop and campground. This tiny community was bustling with bikers en route to Sturgis. I’d an immense desire to pop a wheelie on cycling into camp, the thought of which gave me the giggles as I could just imagine such a sight, panniers flying and all!

 

5 August - Wall

The plan was to bike through the Badlands National Park, but the wind was howling. In the miserable weather, I stayed put. The bikers all left for the rally but returned later as Wall must’ve been the cheapest campsite in the area.

 

6 August - Wall – 1880 Town - 105 km

By morning there was no change in the weather. Still, there wasn’t a considerable amount one could do but pack up and face the elements. I departed Wall in a drizzle, a drizzle which continued, on and off all day. Little of interest was happening, and the only entertainment was taking selfies – I’ve to be extremely bored to do such a thing!

Towards the end of the day, another cyclist came into view. He was on a mission to cycle all 50 states, which sounded pretty monotonous, going around and around in the same country. But, then again, this was the nice part about bicycle touring – we all did our own thing, in our own time and manner. We chatted a while, before continuing to the next town. I finished the day’s ride in a tiny town named 1880 Town. Its single claim to fame was that the area was one of the film locations for Dances with Wolves.

 

7 August - 1880 Town – Kennebec - 105 km

With no change of scenery, the tarmac stretched miles and miles through farmlands known as the Great Plains. These plains were once home to large herds of American bison until hunted to near extinction during the mid/late-19^th century.

Although I could imagine those great animals roaming the plains, the day nevertheless became a long and monotonous one to Kennebec. The entire way remained busy with motorbikes to and from the Sturgis Rally.

Mercifully, the old highway ran parallel to the interstate and made effortless pedalling away from the traffic. Eventually, I came upon a frigging expensive campsite at Kennebec, and I could just as well have taken a room.

 

8 August - Kennebec – Chamberlain - 55 km

As there was no change in the weather or views and lacking the energy to deal with the boredom, I called it a day once across the Missouri River. The campsite was a pleasant one on the Missouri River banks, but I first proceeded to the shop. Campers were always chatty and primarily curious about where you came from and where you were going. Feeling tired, I retreated to my tent early as the weather came in and started drizzling.

Being snug, an additional day was spent in tiny Chamberlain. Unfortunately, Chamberlain didn’t offer a great deal in the excitement line. There was nothing to do but relax, eat, and cycle up the lone hill to take a few river pics. Most remarkable was that this small community of barely 2,000 residents boasted a South Dakota Hall of Fame.

 

10 August - Chamberlain – Mitchell - 117 km

Feeling energised, I crossed the last of the Great Plains. These plains are an enormous expanse of steppes and in places nearly as lonely as frontier days. The area referred to as the Great Plains stretches practically 800 kilometres east to west and 3,200 kilometres north to south, and it felt I’d cycled the entire distance.

Nothing significantly happened except meeting the priest who treated me to coffee. There couldn't have been much for him to do in such a small place, which was rather conservative judging by the signboards.

These advertising boards were a contradiction in themselves as side by side they stood, one pro-war and the other anti-abortion. I failed to see how one could justify killing grown men. Still, God forbid one should choose to have an abortion, and guessed this insinuated it was all right to kill people from different races, cultures, and countries.

I made my way to Mitchell, a fair-sized village sporting a population of almost 15,000 and no less than three campgrounds and 20 churches; I kid you not!

 

11 August - Mitchell – Sioux Falls - 115 km

Coffee was in the company of one of the other campers. I chatted for ages to two bikers travelling around the USA. Biking through Mitchell turned out quite interesting. The town was, fittingly, home to a Corn Palace, a magnificent multipurpose building where the murals were made of cob.

Stalls sold all kinds of corn-related items, including racks and racks of T-shirts and other trinkets. Following a bite to eat, the time was past 11h00 before pedalling out of Mitchell.

A minor route took me past the small and fascinating towns of Alexandria, Emery and Bridgewater. These towns were lovely, and looked like part of a movie set, to such an extent, I was surprised to find ordinary people living there.

 

Minnesota

12 August - Sioux Falls, South Dakota – Luverne, Minnesota - 60 km

Parks and a bike path surrounded Sioux Falls and stopping at the falls came naturally. After a few pics and a walk to the old mill ruins, I continued to Luverne.

What a delightfully odd country this was. Minnesota is located in the Midwest, which wasn't even close to the "Midwest", no matter how I turned the map, it remained more North/North East. A place where a pie refers to something sweet and dessert-like, instead of the savoury, meaty main meal I'm accustomed to. A place where a scone is a biscuit, and not eaten with jam and cream but with egg and bacon or gravy. I love travelling.

Almost halfway to Luverne my route crossed into Minnesota. Feeling lazy, I succumbed to temptation and got myself a room in Luverne. I needed the internet and spent the rest of the day doing internet stuff.

 

13 August - Luverne – Jackson - 113 km

The day dawned bright and sunny revealing barely any wind, and the sky a brilliant blue. The temperature was perfect as Route 90 beat a dead straight path across the Midwest, passing tiny hamlets featuring populations of a mere 200. Yet, all seemed well in the Midwest, the corn stood high, cattle were fat, and soybeans appeared ready to be harvested.

I also discovered an hour was gained somewhere along the line - quite where and when that happened remained a mystery.

 

14 August - Jackson – Blue Earth - 84 km

I woke to a beautiful sunrise, packed my tent, had a cup of coffee, and ventured further east. Route 90 led past more cornfields, soybeans, pig farms and small villages.

Not much was happening except to watch dare-devil crop-sprayers at work. With the strong smell of pesticide in the air, I only snapped a few pics and then moved upwind to watch a few more minutes.

On slinking into the tiny settlement of Blue Earth, I jumped at the opportunity of a room, even if not entirely necessary. The next town was a further 40 miles away, making an awfully long day. Blue Earth was referred to as a city, but with a population of barely 3,000, the place was no more than a hamlet. The extraordinary thing was the village boasted a gigantic 17-metre-tall "Jolly Green Giant", a human pea statue, promoting the Minnesota Valley Canning Company. I'm not making this up!

 

15 August - Blue Earth – Albert Lea - 75 km

It became one of those days that dragged on forever, with little of interest. Saying that, each day, something happened. On this day, a farmer stopped and gave me $5, instructing me to have a cup of coffee. How sweet of him and I did precisely that.

There’s no point in cycling if it’s not enjoyable, and a campsite on the outskirts of Albert Lea signalled the end of my day’s ride. Surrounded by six lakes, Albert Lea was pretty but had a diminishing population. Not merely wasn't there anything happening but I believe the temperature ranged between 41°C in summer to minus 15°C in winter. Fortunately, I was there, slap-bang, between these two extremes.

 

16 August - Albert Lea – Preston - 115 km

The following day my energy levels returned, and the ride turned into an enjoyable day of cycle touring. The weather was perfect, with scarcely any wind to speak of. A dirt track took me through farmlands and left me highly impressed by the farming activities; which were neat and well-organised. The homesteads all looked well-maintained and the fields immaculate and well-tended.

Minnesota is a relatively "roomy" state and I hardly saw anyone, except a few small communities. In Preston, one could camp at the fairground at a reasonable price (sometimes even free).

Following the usual shopping, the tent was pitched. I barely ever cooked in the US as food was always conveniently available.

 

Wisconsin

17 August - Preston – La Crosse - 106 km

I waited the next morning, but no one came to collect the camping fee. Then, to my surprise and delight, I discovered a cycle path that took me from Preston to Houston. The trail made a picturesque ride along the Root River and ran through the quaintest of villages and I was happy with the change of vistas.

Along the path I met Alex and Jill, a lovely couple, out for the weekend with their two-year-old son, Lennon. They biked from La Crosse to Lanesboro, camped there and were on their way home when I met them. They invited me to camp in their garden, which became a sociable evening. Jill made a delicious supper, and we drank a few beers. They also allowed me to use their laundry and I’d a decent scrubbing in their shower. All hugely appreciated.

 

18 August - La Crosse – Norwalk - 70 km

All good things come to an end, and following breakfast, and with loads of information, I left Alex and Jill's home. After visiting the outdoor store and computer shop, the time was virtually midday before riding out of La Crosse.

Shortly outside La Crosse I came upon a bicycle path to Reedsburg. The trail was interesting as, for the most part, it followed an old railway line, by then converted into a bike path. Building the railway line through the Wisconsin hills must’ve been quite tricky. Low lying areas were filled in, and tunnels were dug through the mountains, making the ride an excellent even 3-degree grade.

The extraordinary thing was the tunnels were freezing inside. To such an extent condensation flowed out the tunnels resembling smoke. The tunnels were scary and spooky as they were long and pitch dark (without being able to see the light at the other end). Water dripped down from the ceiling and bats skirted around my head, and I was relieved to clear the dark tunnel.

Norwalk's tiny settlement appeared shortly beyond the tunnel, which had free camping in the village park.

Lightning and thunder made me take cover, and I pitched the tent under a covered area. Following a shower and feeling like something sweet, I walked to a shop selling milkshakes. Unfortunately, Lisa was closing as I got there. So instead, she invited me for a beer at the pub, which turned out a fascinating and enjoyable evening.

 

19 - 21 August - Norwalk – Reedsburg - 73 km

The following day the tunnels were not as long and scary. Nevertheless, the enormous doors to these tunnel entrances were intriguing. I read they were to seal in warmer temperatures during cold weather (and of cause keep the snow out). Back in the day, tunnel watchmen were hired to open and close the doors as trains approached.

An effortless and relaxing ride led in the direction of Reedsburg which had a computer shop and accommodation, unfortunately the computer shop was already closed.

The following day, I took the laptop to see if they could sort out Skype which stopped working. While they worked on the computer, I handed in my sleeping bag at the laundry (a long overdue job). It wasn't the washing, but the drying that took forever.

The next morning, rain came gushing down and, as it was still raining by midday, I decided to stay and relax in front of the TV.

 

22 August - Reedsburg – De Forest - 80 km

The weather cleared allowing a visit to Reedsburg Pioneer Village. The Pioneer Log Village was a representation of early Reedsburg. The project consisted of nine original log cabins, some having been moved intact from surrounding areas and others rebuilt from original logs. Three pioneer homes, an 1873 one-room school, an 1873 log church, a general store and post office, a library, and a blacksmith shop, made up the village. Unfortunately, the buildings were closed due to the heat. Or, at least, that was what they said. The temperature was only 25ᵒC but incredibly humid.

My next stop was at beautiful Devil's Lake. Not simply did the area consist of a beautiful lake but was also home to stunning rock outcrops. I read that the area formed part of the Baraboo Range, which scientists believe was created 1.6 billion years ago.

Even more interesting was that I kept crossing the "Ice Age Trail," a thousand-mile footpath, entirely within Wisconsin. It was said more than 12,000 years ago an immense flow of glacial ice formed the landscape here, and it made me instantly want to hike the trail. Fortunately, I refrained from doing any such thing as hiking would require a completely different set of equipment.

Route 113 arrived at the Merrimac Ferry which crosses Lake Wisconsin. The ferry was more a barge than a ferry as it was pulled across the lake by cables. I guessed the barge was due to the shallowness of the lake as I read it has a maximum depth of 7.3m.

Once on the opposite side, I resumed my ride past Lodi and Dane. Shortly past Dane, a kind man stopped and offered to take my panniers to my next destination; how very nice of him.

The weather was incredibly humid as I pitched the tent at DeForest. Unfortunately, I soon had to retreat into the tent to avoid being devoured by the many eager mosquitos. Although hot, it was fun lying in the tent watching fireflies darting around.

So hot, humid and tropical was the weather, I could for the life of me not imagine winter in Wisconsin as I understood the average temperature for December, January and February was a mere 5°F.

 

23 August - De Forest – Waukesha - 135 km

Packing up was at a leisurely pace after which minor paths led past houses displaying home-grown products for sale, which looked rather lovely.

The rest of the day was a relaxing and fascinating day of biking, along a bicycle path that led to Waukesha.

 

24 August – Waukesha, Wisconsin – Muskegon, Michigan - 22 km (Ferry)

A short ride, partly on a bike path, took me to the ferry terminal in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. En route to the ferry, I met Bob, another cyclist, who accompanied me to the ferry terminal. I was just in time to board the ferry across Lake Michigan, which came at a hefty $100 fee. However, the ferry was amazingly comfortable and fast. Two hours later, I was relieved to moor at the pier in Muskegon, Michigan. My relief was due to the countless accounts of mighty strange sightings and disappearances in and around Lake Michigan. I overnighted in Muskegon but sadly never witnessed any UFOs or bright lights in the sky.

 

Michigan

25 August - Muskegon – Holland - 50 km

From Muskegon a short 50-kilometre ride took me to Holland and although it rained nearly all day, the weather cleared towards the end of the ride. Nevertheless, Holland sported a motel that provided a fast enough internet connection to reload the Garmin map which went on the blink.

The town of Holland came as a surprise as the town indeed resembled a tiny Holland, sporting windmills and wooden shoes. Shops were even selling apple strudel.

 

26 August - Holland – Covert - 78 km

The rain-soaked ride to Covert, was somewhat miserable. Fortunately, the weather wasn't cold but thunder and lightning made me take cover at a shop. Shortly afterwards, I finished the day’s ride on spotting a campsite in Covert, where I crawled in sopping wet.

 

27 August - Covert – Vicksburg - 80 km

So well did I sleep, the time was already past 8h00 before emerging from the tent. Coffee was from a store in camp and 10h30 before biking out of Covert in Vicksburg's direction.

The time came to cut across the state of Michigan towards Lake Erie. Unfortunately, no clear path headed across the state and the day was spent zig-zagging through farmlands on country roads. At one of these settlements, I met Sharon Wimple, running for state representative. On wishing her well in the elections, she put a few dollars in my hand and told me to have a meal. As this was the second time I was given money to buy food, I thought I must look somewhat scrawny.

Vicksburg had a campground on the outskirts of town, but the sites were costly. Fortunately, a welcoming chap invited me to share his stand; later, a friend of his also pulled in. They made a fire, and we sat around having a few beers. My hosts proceeded to get completely pissed, and I quietly slinked off to the tent. While lying there, I could hear them chatting away, getting increasingly drunk as the hours went by. Finally, I fell asleep but woke in the middle of the night with one of them sitting outside the tent telling me how much he loved me, suggesting he lay down next to me. I unzipped the tent and angrily shouted, "Fuck off!" It was uttered with such gusto you’ve never seen a drunken man scurry that fast.

 

28 August - Vicksburg – Jonesville - 93 km

The way to Jonesville was one more day spent zig-zagging through farmlands. Biking through the villages was preferable as they were pretty interesting but the streets running through these settlements were surprisingly narrow and busy.

On arrival in Jonesville, a reasonably priced motel lured me in. It made updating photos and journal entries easy while watching TV.

 

Ohio

29 August – Jonesville, Ohio – Twin Acres Campground, Swanton, Ohio - 115 km

Not a significant amount happened, and I was happy to come across a trail through the forest which provided a change of scenery. However, as soon as the path crossed the border into Ohio, I was back amidst cornfields and the traditional red barns. The day dragged on a tad but finally, the route spat me out in Swanton, exactly where I wanted to be and where food was bought from the small supermarket before pedalling to the campsite. Being Labour Day weekend, the camp was chock-a-block; fortunately, there remained space for a small tent.

 

30 - 31 August - Swanton – Stony Ride - 33 km

I didn't feel like cycling but was stuck on the camp's outskirts, without electricity or Wi-Fi, and therefore packed up and rode the short distance to Stony Ride.

Being Labour Day weekend, everything was chock-a-block full (and nearly double the regular price). I decided to lie low and wait for the holidays to pass before venturing further east.

Times like these allow hauling out the macro lens. What I like about this lens (Canon Macro 100 mm 1:2.8 L) is when the focus is spot on, one can zoom in and crop to your heart's content without losing detail.

 

1 - 2 September - Stony Ride – Norwalk - 92 km

A cycle path followed the old original railroad between New York and Chicago, which led past the interesting communities of Elmore, Lindsey, Fremont, Clyde and Bellevue and, finally, Norwalk. Two nights were spent in Norwalk as the weather report predicted heavy storms. Nothing, however, came of the predicted bad weather except a drizzle.

 

3 September - Norwalk – Motel 6, Middleburg Heights - 77 km

The following day dawned bright and sunny, but it felt like each dog in the district wanted a piece of me that day, especially the little ones. Soon, the road brought me to Cleveland's outskirts and not feeling like staying in the city, I took a room at a Motel 6.

 

4 September - Motel 6 – Geneva State Park - 95 km

The ride through Cleveland was fascinating, and on riding into the city centre, the route passed underneath the Hope Memorial Bridge with its "Guardians of Traffic". Each of the eight guardians carved on the bridge pylons holds a different vehicle. Collectively they represent the history of ground transport — from a stagecoach, covered wagon and hay rack, to a 1930s-era automobile and four types of trucks. In the process, one also had an excellent view of the city.

The Lakeshore path was in poor condition except for the stretch through the well-off areas. Soon the trail reached the city's outskirts and followed the shores of Lake Erie. That night camping was at Geneva State Park right on the lake.

 

Pennsylvania 

5 September - Geneva State Park – Erie - 95 km

The weather was stunning as I set off along Lake Erie and no sooner the road crossed the border into the state of Pennsylvania, founded in 1681 as a Quaker Community.

The day’s ride finished in Erie where camping was on the water. It was a convenient spot, but a storm came in during the night, and I feared the tent wouldn’t be able to withstand the high wind. There was nothing to do but crawl out in bucketing rain, peg in the guy ropes as best I could, and sopping wet crawl back in. Fortunately, the storm passed quickly, and although it rained throughout the night, the high winds subsided. Phew!

 

6 September - Erie – Dunkirk - 87 km

By morning the weather cleared, and it became a beautiful day out on the bike. Not wanting to cycle to the falls in a day I decided to make the ride two short days. A leisurely ride ran through vineyards to Dunkirk and midway. During the day the road left Pennsylvania and crossed into the state of New York.

 

New York

7 - 10 September - Dunkirk – Buffalo - 87 km

Being early September, the weather was great and the sky a bright blue with no wind to speak of. A good deal of the day was spent talking to people met along the way.

In the process, the way passed a massive wooden statue of a Native American. It’s said (sadly) merely around 1% of the county’s population was native. Even less than Asians, Chinese, and Filipinos, not to mention Europeans.

On the outskirts of Buffalo was a very professional-looking bicycle shop and, as my bike needed a service, I found a room nearby.

The next day, and being a Monday, the bike shop was closed. In the meantime, I succumbed to temptation. I ordered a Canon EF 24-105mm f/4L IS USM lens, which I’ve been eyeing a long time and couldn’t leave Buffalo until my order arrived.

The following morning, I returned to the shop where I left my sad-looking bicycle in their capable hands. My assumption that the bike would take a day or two was clearly incorrect. Waiting for the cycle was no big deal as seeing I'd to wait for the lens, I could as well do the whole lot in one fell swoop.

 

11 - 14 September - Buffalo – Niagara Falls - 50 km

With the bike serviced and the camera's new lens, I pedalled along the river to Niagara Falls. My efforts were well rewarded as the bike ran smoothly and the new lens was a treat. As a person got closer to the falls, the river started flowing faster, and one could see "smoke" rising in the distance, adding to my excitement. Surprisingly, the area wasn't a typical "waterfall type" terrain as the landscape was pan flat and lacked mountains or high cliffs. Then as if the earth opened, the water spilt over the precipice to the river below. I couldn't wait to try the new lens and almost immediately set out to the falls, where gazillion photos were taken.

 

15 September - Niagara Falls – Albion - 88 km

After three days I got onto the Erie Canal, which runs across the state for 363 miles from the Hudson River in Albany to Lake Erie. My bicycle was newly serviced and ran like new (albeit $550 later). My new lens was on the camera, the sun was shining, and I’d the benefit of a slight tailwind. Life was indeed good. On this day I discovered the Erie Canal and overnighted in Albion who can thank the canal for its existence.

 

16 September - Albion – Newark - 117 km

The discovery of the Erie Canal Heritage Trail, which followed the canal, made a lovely day of biking while meeting interesting people and watching boats cruising along the channel. It looked genuinely pleasant and made me want to do the same. Digging the canal, which opened in 1825, must’ve been quite a feat in its day.

Towards the end of the day Newark, a typical canal community, made convenient camping as the village provided amenities for the many boaters.

 

17 September - Newark – De Witte - 105 km

The canal also had a fascinating history. Throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, the lack of an efficient and safe transportation network kept the population (and trade) primarily confined to coastal areas. For many years, explorers searched for a waterway to the west. Then, in 1807, Jesse Hawley, a prisoner in the Canandaigua Jail, wrote a series of essays proposing a waterway from Lake Erie to the Atlantic Ocean. He described the route, costs, and benefits of what would become the Erie Canal in great detail.

Today, a pleasant road runs along the canal; squirrels darted across the path, and grey herons waded in the shallows, all while passing numerous old locks. I couldn’t help but wonder if Jessy Hawley was ever financially compensated for these efforts.

 

18 September - De Witt – Rome - 60 km

Even though not in the mood for cycling, the ride remained pleasant, offering beautiful views of the surrounding woods and the canal. Rome was far more extensive and revealed a considerably longer history than the other settlements along the canal. While investigating the area I learned Rome was an ancient portage path until the Europeans arrived. This ancient trade route joined the Great Lakes and Canada via the Mohawk River to the Hudson River and the Atlantic Ocean. I then realised the Erie Canal wasn’t such a new invention.

 

19 September - Rome – St Johnsville - 87 km

The trail passed many locks, some old and a few still operating, and fascinating to watch boats being let through while chatting with the operators.

In St. Johnsville, camping was possible at the Marina - a lovely place on the canal. Although no more than a hamlet, St Johnsville was settled in 1725 and a church was built in 1769 “for the benefit of the Indians”. Again, I was baffled at how Europeans justified going to another part of the world, killing the people, taking their land, and then trying to convince them to take on those values.

 

20 September - St Johnsville – Schenectady - 87 km

A nearby Mcdonald’s made a leisurely breakfast before continuing along the canal, sometimes flush next to it and sometimes further away. The area was pleasant, and I ambled along until reaching Schenectady, another city with a long but sad history.

 

21 September - Schenectady – Waterford - 40 km

A short ride led to the end of the Erie Canal Trail where I’d difficulty deciding what to do next. I could follow the Hudson River north to see the fall colours or head straight to Boston from where the plan was flying out. Eventually, I wasn't sure the detour north would be worth the effort and thus headed towards Boston.

 

22 September - Waterford – Pittsfield - 76 km

My route first swung by Troy, a remarkably fascinating village situated at the confluence of the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers (two major waterways), a location which made Troy the fourth wealthiest city in America around the turn of the 20th century. To this day, Troy is graced by beautiful Victorian architecture and a few elaborate private homes.

From Troy, the route headed east in the direction of Boston. Feeling lethargic and picking up $20 made me opt for a room at the Berkshire Inn.

 

Massachusetts

23 September - Pittsfield – Northampton - 70 km

I loaded up and pointed the bike in the direction of Boston. However, I always felt sluggish at the end of a long ride as I didn't quite want the ride over. Thus, I pulled into the Knight Inn, just off the cycle path, to drag the ride out one more day.

 

24 September - Northampton – Worcester - 105 km

The ride to Worcester was slow as the road ran slightly uphill. Still, it remained a beautiful ride as the fall colours started showing themselves. Due to the many photo stops, Worcester was only reached late afternoon.

 

25 - 30 September - Worcester – Boston - 70 km

My last day of cycling in the US arrived far too soon, and a pleasant descent took me to Boston. I sped past tiny settlements and trees in full autumn colours, down cycle paths, right into the heart of Boston.

I was happy and sad to reach Boston. It marked the end of my trip through the Americas, which started in Ushuaia, Argentina many moons ago. Time to relax, put my feet up, and look for a flight to a different part of the world. Hopefully, to a place featuring a slightly warmer climate.

A few days were spent in Boston, exploring that lovely city and its numerous interesting sights and organising things for my flight out. I meandered the city’s historic downtown featuring well-preserved architecture where old buildings sit comfortably next to modern ones. I ambled past pricy Victorian brownstone townhouses across the "Salt-and-Pepper Bridge" and along the Charles River banks.

Rumours had it, one could get a bike box at the airport, but following phoning two airlines at Boston airport, none had boxes for sale. Eventually, Back Bay Cycles boxed the bicycle.

As always, the longer I stayed, the more interesting the city became. Although Boston was beautiful, friendly and culturally rich, the city was further far older than expected. Founded in 1630 by the English, it’s also the place where, between 1765 and 1783, citizens revolted against the British. Fed up with the high taxes levied by Britain, the Boston Tea Party was formed. I found this all remarkably fascinating.

Steve, the owner of the Everet Hostel, offered to give me a ride to the shop to pick up the bicycle. He also suggested (can you believe this?) getting up at four in the morning to take me to the airport for my flight to Jamaica. I was immensely grateful for his generosity as it wasn’t merely a hassle but also expensive to get myself and bike to the airport.