Hot Rides

"Wow! Amazing! You're cycling to the bottom of South America. Is it all downhill?". Alan and I looked at each other in amusement and suggested that we expected a few uphill sections.

The historic coal town of Blackball is tucked away on a terrace above the West Coast's Grey River. Once famous as the birthplace of the Labour Party and our nation's trade union movement, it's now a shadow of its former glory.

Hero Cycles is the world's largest manufacturer of bikes, spitting out a whopping six million a year. You're unlikely to find one at your local bike shop but as any seasoned traveller can attest, they are the 'people's car' of India.On previous trips I had mused about touring local-style around the sub-continent. Eventually I ran out of excuses and abandoned my quiver of bicycles in New Zealand in favour of a sturdy Hero.

Trev and I were filthy. Sweat, caked with red dust, covered our bodies and permeated every accessible orifice. It had been a long, hard day... and on the map, May River looked like a great place to camp. We allowed ourselves to fantasise about plunging into the cool waters, or even indulging in a splash bath out of our billy.

Heat rising off the tarmac roasts me. My legs are locked into a rhythm as I push the pedals around. All I can hear is my own panting and the ring of cowbells floating across alpine meadows. After two hours of climbing I approach the summit of Hourquette d'Ancizon, a back road close to today's stage of the Tour de France.

I woke early. Having spent the past week bedridden with a raging fever, I was eager to leave Chitral's dusty streets. As I cycled through the bazaar on my way out of town, I passed the day's slaughter being brought to market. Cuts of meat lay in rusty wheelbarrows.

Some smart-arse once muttered, "it's not the things you do in life that you come to regret but the things you don't". So I quickly say "Yes" to John Etherington when he invites me on one of his Escape Adventure trips through East Africa.

When my brother Steve announced he'd mapped out a coast to coast route across the Northern Highlands, I sighed wistfully... "a week long epic from Ratagan to Montrose - I'll never get the time off work". To my surprise, he had actually pulled together a little gem that could be completed in just a couple of days. 

In mountain bike racing, it sometimes happens. There are a bunch of slower riders in front, but you bide your time and find a safe place to pass. Ten minutes into this race and I was contemplating more extreme options as I viewed an endless mass of riders snaking into the distance. About 3,000 riders compete in the annual Finnmarks Turen endurance race in Ludvika, Sweden... and I started dead last.

In the summer of 2009, our route from Greece to Germany crossed the small country of Albania. It glared from the map with uncertainty - neither Tina nor I could claim encyclopaedic knowledge of the place.

On a foggy winter day last year an email arrived from Simon Kennett suggesting a multiday mountain bike 'brevet' around the top half of the South Island - informal with self enforced rules, no entry fee, unsupported, and at first nervous glance a long hard race against yourself.

I had excess baggage on the brain when planning last year's cycle show for Ground Effect in London. Flying through the USA with its more generous piece allowance was the obvious choice.