Hot Rides

Our original thought was to cycle tour through Italy. Then we mused that a mountain bike road trip might be more like us. The thought of combining the two didn't really emerge until the drive train on my touring bike imploded during a test outing in the Black Forest.

I teach German and a bit of junior French at high school. My French was pretty rough so I decided to apply for, and was fortunate enough to get, a Ministry of Education 'language immersion scholarship' to the south of France. Not content with just sunning it and soaking up the language, food and local vintages for three months - I decided to take my bike along as company.

Exploring the backcountry with your bike is a blast. And packing some extra kit to spend the night makes it even better, extending your range into remote regions and enhancing the outdoor experience... Maggi soup, cheesy one-pot pasta and steamed pud never tastes so good as when capping off a big day.

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.