Hot Rides

There is something irresistible about Italy and Italian culture. The language is sexy, the locals gregarious and eating well is a national sport. Neither Nikki nor I had been to the Dolomites, nor knew much about them beyond a few breathtaking pictures of pale spires and sheer faces.

The London Cycle Show had taunted Ground Effect for a few years. Flippant remarks about mountain biking Wales or even making a break for the French Alps added recreational weight to the promotional argument for exhibiting at the show.

The ancient Greeks named it after Callista (the most beautiful one), Phoenician sailors called it Kersica (covered by forests), but we call it Corsica. Nestled in the Mediterranean Sea between France and Italy, the island of Corsica is a rugged corner of old Europe.

Like most of Europe, Spain has long been influenced by the ebb and flow of humanity. In the ninth century the church had the good fortune to 'rediscover' the remains of Saint James near the town that became Santiago.

The orange glow of the setting sun is reflected in the towering cliffs ahead. Darkness is gathering, and as the narrow road winds around another corner I wonder if we'll find the village we're looking for before dark.

Sou-westerly clouds scud across the pre-dawn sky as we park up at the Skippers' turn-off. It's toasty inside the car. Outside, it's shockingly cold. We face a grim weather forecast. An ark might be needed if the gods deliver the promised floods of biblical proportions.

The title to this story isn't a typo (Who is Bronwyn?) or an incomplete sentence (Meet Bronwyn's what?). Bronwyn's is a downhill track at Gap Creek in Brisbane. A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.

While making wedding plans and sifting through glossy brochures touting honeymoon-type resorts, Shane and I hastily reassured each other that none of that soft stuff was for us. At some stage Cuba bumped the radar.

When my partner Pam mumbled "cycle touring" between gulps of rough red, I waited for the previously hinted at trip through Arthur's Pass to resurface. But no, Myanmar was now on the radar.

'The Only Risk is Wanting to Stay', promises Colombia's latest tourist advertising slogan, printed over glossy photos of idyllic Caribbean coastlines, perfectly preserved colonial towns, rolling, lush coffee plantations and a Latin couple dancing hot cumbia.

Picture yourself on an empty mountain road. Limestone peaks stretch all the way to the horizon. The sun is shining. There are villages every fifty kilometres, where you can refuel on tasty noodle soup for less than a dollar. As you cycle through villages, kids run out and cheer you like a Tour de France rider with a hearty "Sabaidee!"