Learning to spell like Lawrence

Final stats

katescarlett — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 22:23:00 GMT

We're done and dusted! Here are the final stats from our 6-month trip.

	Morocco	Italy, France, Spain	Balkans	Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia	Scotland	Scandinavia	Total average	Total
Count (activities):	13	33	29	13	41	32	26.83	161.00
Distance:	994.2	2,083.31	2,219.43	971.43	1,986.34	2,470.06	1,787.46	10,724.77
Time:	49:45:15	97:13:01	105:56:42	46:32:12	99:58:55	127:18:58	87.79	526.75
Elevation Gain (m):	9,731	15,289	25,345	12,569	21,268	21,723	17,654.17	105,925.00
Avg Speed (km/h):	20	21.4	20.9	20.9	19.9	19.4	20.42	N/A
Avg HR (bpm):	132	118	126	126	118	95	119.17	N/A
Avg Bike Cadence (RPM):	75	76	79	81	84	77	78.67	N/A
Calories:	19,652	41,322	42,226	19,653	42,496	57,009	37,059.67	222,358.00
Avg Distance (km):	76.48	63.13	76.53	74.73	48.45	77.19	69.42	N/A
Median Distance (km):	87.01	78.59	90.18	88.2	40.38	83.85	78.04	N/A
Max Distance (km):	125.26	114.18	128.05	114.94	112.54	123.62	119.77	N/A
Avg Time:	3:49:38	2:56:45	3:39:12	3:34:47	2:26:19	3:58:43	3.42	N/A
Median Time:	3:57:42	3:41:51	4:21:09	4:12:15	2:12:17	4:15:47	3.79	N/A
Max Time:	5:41:55	4:58:05	5:58:47	5:29:49	5:31:21	5:52:44	5.63	N/A
Avg Elevation Gain (m):	749	463	874	967	519	679	708.50	N/A
Median Elevation Gain (m):	589	305	906	833	460	516	601.50	N/A
Max Elevation Gain (m):	1,917	2,047	1,721	2,782	1,495	2,120	2,013.67	N/A
Elevation Loss (m):	8,454	15,439	24,236	10,916	20,865	21,755	16,944.17	101,665.00
Avg Elevation Loss (m):	650	468	836	840	509	680	663.83	N/A
Median Elevation Loss (m):	684	324	896	767	434	506	601.83	N/A
Max Elevation Loss (m):	1,152	1,981	1,648	2,702	1,495	2,104	1,847.00	N/A
Max Avg Speed (km/h):	24.6	24.7	25.8	24.6	23.2	23.4	24.38	N/A
Max Speed (km/h):	56.3	58.1	58.8	65.4	66.3	65.2	61.68	N/A
Max Avg HR (bpm):	139	143	137	150	177	163	151.50	909.00
Metres of elevation gain per km cycled (commas are decimal points)	10.00	7.34	11.42	12.94	10.71	8.80	10.20	N/A
Number of dogs which chased us	7	0	16	0	0	0	3.83	23.00
Number of slugs that fell out of trees onto Matt while cycling	0	0	1	0	0	0	0.17	1.00
Number of unloaded passes (have to be over 2000m high, and contain 500m of climb)	0	0	0	1	0	0	0.17	1.00
Number of touring passes (must be over 1000m high, and contain 250m of climbing. Bike must be fully loaded)	3	1	4	1	0	1	1.67	10.00

	Morocco	Italy, France, Spain	Balkans	Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia	Scotland	Scandinavia	Total average	Total
Count (activities):	13	33	29	13	41	32	26.83	161.00
Distance:	994.2	2,083.31	2,219.43	971.43	1,986.34	2,470.06	1,787.46	10,724.77
Time:	49:45:15	97:13:01	105:56:42	46:32:12	99:58:55	127:18:58	87.79	526.75
Elevation Gain (m):	9,731	15,289	25,345	12,569	21,268	21,723	17,654.17	105,925.00
Avg Speed (km/h):	20	21.4	20.9	20.9	19.9	19.4	20.42	N/A
Avg HR (bpm):	132	118	126	126	118	95	119.17	N/A
Avg Bike Cadence (RPM):	75	76	79	81	84	77	78.67	N/A
Calories:	19,652	41,322	42,226	19,653	42,496	57,009	37,059.67	222,358.00
Avg Distance (km):	76.48	63.13	76.53	74.73	48.45	77.19	69.42	N/A
Median Distance (km):	87.01	78.59	90.18	88.2	40.38	83.85	78.04	N/A
Max Distance (km):	125.26	114.18	128.05	114.94	112.54	123.62	119.77	N/A
Avg Time:	3:49:38	2:56:45	3:39:12	3:34:47	2:26:19	3:58:43	3.42	N/A
Median Time:	3:57:42	3:41:51	4:21:09	4:12:15	2:12:17	4:15:47	3.79	N/A
Max Time:	5:41:55	4:58:05	5:58:47	5:29:49	5:31:21	5:52:44	5.63	N/A
Avg Elevation Gain (m):	749	463	874	967	519	679	708.50	N/A
Median Elevation Gain (m):	589	305	906	833	460	516	601.50	N/A
Max Elevation Gain (m):	1,917	2,047	1,721	2,782	1,495	2,120	2,013.67	N/A
Elevation Loss (m):	8,454	15,439	24,236	10,916	20,865	21,755	16,944.17	101,665.00
Avg Elevation Loss (m):	650	468	836	840	509	680	663.83	N/A
Median Elevation Loss (m):	684	324	896	767	434	506	601.83	N/A
Max Elevation Loss (m):	1,152	1,981	1,648	2,702	1,495	2,104	1,847.00	N/A
Max Avg Speed (km/h):	24.6	24.7	25.8	24.6	23.2	23.4	24.38	N/A
Max Speed (km/h):	56.3	58.1	58.8	65.4	66.3	65.2	61.68	N/A
Max Avg HR (bpm):	139	143	137	150	177	163	151.50	909.00
Metres of elevation gain per km cycled (commas are decimal points)	10.00	7.34	11.42	12.94	10.71	8.80	10.20	N/A
Number of dogs which chased us	7	0	16	0	0	0	3.83	23.00
Number of slugs that fell out of trees onto Matt while cycling	0	0	1	0	0	0	0.17	1.00
Number of unloaded passes (have to be over 2000m high, and contain 500m of climb)	0	0	0	1	0	0	0.17	1.00
Number of touring passes (must be over 1000m high, and contain 250m of climbing. Bike must be fully loaded)	3	1	4	1	0	1	1.67	10.00

Goodbye to the Far West

katescarlett — Mon, 23 Dec 2013 11:20:00 GMT

After crossing the Middle Atlas, we end our cycling in Marrakesh. It has been a long week of riding, crossing some high passes and travelling through a landscape of stones and cedars, punctuated by nights in small towns that are not tourist attractions, nor set up to accommodate western tourists at all. Although there are cafes, they are a very masculine domain, with good coffee but weird ambience. There is usually not much a vegetarian can eat, and because promenading along the main street takes about five minutes and we are stared at or followed the whole time, we usually end up retreating to our hotel room for a picnic of fresh bread and avocado. I discover that I can survive on a week of cold showers, and when I finally think I have found a hot one, learn that the hot tap has in fact been connected to the electricity mains and attempt to electrocute myself in a bathroom that could pass for a cell. This aside, it was wonderful being in a normal Moroccan town seeing normal lives without the tourist overlay, and the mountains, with the snowy peaks of the high atlas in the distance are beautiful.

As a city, then, Marrakesh is a revelation. Cafes. Shops. Lights and colour. Hundreds of tourists, who allow us to blend in with the crowd. It is easy to navigate, with plenty to see. We head off on a tourist bus to ride camels through Saharan Desert dunes in Merzouga. It feels like cheating, being driven in air conditioned comfort from restaurant to berber camp, kasbah to carpet shop.

On our final night, Marrakesh turns on a party. Somehow, Raja Casablanca has made it to the World Club Cup Final, playing Bayern Munich. The Jemaa El Fna square in the centre of the medina, which is usually packed with orange juice sellers, fig and date stalls, cobra charmers and acrobats is transformed instead into a place of football worship, with the game televised on a giant screen at one end of the square and a huge crowd of green and white flag bearing Moroccans, with the odd leiderhosen wearing German in the mix. People assume we are German, greating us with 'Wilkommen' and taunting us 'Two Zero'. If I actually was German I'm sure I'd feel schadenfreude in the fact that the score was 'Two Zero', but not their way. But it would have been nice to see Casablanca win.

Instead of joining the humming masses, we went to the Grand Hotel Tazi to watch the game. What was once a grand hotel now looks a little worn at the edges, but the lobby is still decked out with beautiful stone carved walls and tilework. We sit amongst an odd crowd, surrounded by their empty beer bottles and plates of olives and popcorn. There are very stoned westerners, staring moonily at the screen, and Moroccans in leather jackets and baseball caps. A Che lookalike who sits on the edge of his seat, looking like this is a game of life or death. A man in a white down jacket with teeth like candles in a birthday cake, who mutters angrily and occasionally pulls up his sleeve to examine the stump where his hand should be. Then he turns to us with a smile, telling us that Australia is wonderful and he likes that Matt's scarf looks like a Raja scarf. A moment later two beautiful blonde girls waft past, and he tears himself away from the game and drifts hypnotised in their wake.

....

One day and a three hour flight later, and we are in a pub near Gatwick Airport. Matt returns from the bar cheerful because he has just avoided a fight. Apparently it ran along the following dialogue.

Man: Are you sniffing me?

Matt: No! I'm just looking at the beer!

Pause, with two minutes elapsing while beer is poured.

Man: So you weren't sniffing me then?

Matt: No.

Man: O.k. Sing with me. Na na na na na, Baby give it up, give it up.

Matt shakes his hand and backs away. A little while later, we overhear him conversing on the phone as we leave.

Man: If he wants to be a big man, tell him to come out here. Go on. Tell him. Tell him to come out here now, big man.

A police car pulls up. We keep walking.

The bicycle in art

katescarlett — Sun, 8 Dec 2013 05:12:00 GMT

There are three types of road marked on our Carte de Touristique Moroc map. The autovia, or A1 freeway, which mere cyclists are not allowed to use. Major secondary roads, of the type we rode along on our first day riding from Tangier to Larache. These are relatively well used, but also well maintained. They have petrol stations selling cold soft drinks at regular intervals, and the only significant obstacles to be avoided are donkey carts and the odd truck coming fast at us in what the driver considers to be the overtaking lane (i.e. straight into the path of oncoming traffic). Then there is the third type of road. Minor roads, just light grey lines, but marked nonetheless.

On our second day of riding, buoyed by the success of the previous day, we decide to follow one of the minor roads. It is more direct - only 125km to our destination instead of 140km. It roughly follows the autovia, so it can't gain much in altitude. Surely it will be like the major secondary roads, only quieter? Perhaps with one or two more donkey carts? Maybe a few more potholes? What other difference could there be?

Sand.

Lots and lots of sand.

Thick patches of the stuff, every few hundred metres, deep enough that our front wheels sink and our rear wheels skid out of control. Deep enough that we have to clip our feet out of our pedals and paddle along like ducks to maintain balance. There are also many more people. On the secondary roads, we mostly saw groups of men sitting at roadside stalls that sell big bags of unshelled peanuts, mandarins and avocados. (Avocado is treated like a fruit here - I order fruit salad for dessert one evening and received a bowl of chopped apple, banana and avocado. Odd, but not completely awful.) On the minor road, however, there are people everywhere. Farm workers. Men just loitering in paddocks. Schools full of children playing in the street, many of whom seem to want to mob us. We ride through a souk, where the road has completely disappeared under sand, weaving our way through donkeys, trucks, people, men on rattly bikes with no brakes. All the men talk to us, of which we understand 'bonjour', 'hola' and 'salaam'. Mostly they are friendly or curious, although I am getting good at keeping a fixed smile and playing deaf to comments like 'bonjour pussycat'. In my cycling trackies, I have never felt less puyssycat in my life.

Our road takes us through some of the poorest communities I have ever seen. The souk is set in a wide field littered with rubbish, among which merchants lay their stock out on blankets. Aside from fresh produce, it is mostly junk. It is a relief to arrive in Kenitra, a friendly university town where we are ignored by the locals and where I feel less conspicuous since about half the women are not wearing head scarves.

Days three and four we opt for the big secondary roads, arriving today in Moulay Idriss. Formerly a town not open to infidels like us, and for muslim pilgrims, a trip here is apparently worth one fifth of a trip to Mecca. It's a cheery spot next to extensive Roman ruins. We have acquired a new painting for the Matt and Kate Collection - an 'ink on cement bag paper' work depicting a woman carrying water on a bicycle. Partly because the artist was so determined to show us the bicycle in his art that he cheerily suffered several rebuffs before we gave up and gave him our attention. Partly because his bicycle was good. Maybe if Morocco was not the place it is, he would be doing something more with his talent than painting on bits of torn cement bag. In any event, the piece will be on display and open to the public upon our return in the new year.

The step where Strummer sat

katescarlett — Thu, 5 Dec 2013 05:05:00 GMT

One argument with a customs official and a 35 minute ferry ride, and we are weaving our way through the crowds of Tangiers, where we are repeatedly offered cheap hotels and hashish. 'Welcome to Africa', one would-be guide shrugs when he realises we won't accept his help.

We have a day to get our bearings, so shape our sightseeing vaguely around walking in the footsteps of the beat poets - drinking coffee on studded leather lounges in Cafe de Paris, keeping an eye out for double agents and conspiratorial whispers. More coffee at a cafe that Tennessee Williams used to haunt. An attempt to drink in a dive that suited Bowles and Burroughs, and a wander through the kasbah in search of these literary luminaries' homes. Despite our best efforts, we get suckered into a guided tour by an 'official guide' (aka street hustler) who shows us a number of sights around the kasbah and tells some interesting stories before insisting we hand over a reasonable chunk of our hard earned... Thankfully the encounter does not end in an all out shouting match, although it is borderline. On the upside, we have seen the steps where the Clash wrote 'rock the casbah' and know that William Burroughs had hair to his feet like a sufi and lived in the same street as Tennessee Williams, Paul Bowles and U2, and saw Ronnie Biggs' hilltop mansion. (Do not rely on this information in a pub quiz or emergency situation.)

In the evening we meet up with Phillip, who we bumped into over a bowl of couscous earlier in the day. He is a young German artist contemplating moving to Tangier. Together we decide to locate a bar for a quiet beer. This is not so easy - bars are not so common, and seem to usually have smoked glass windows so that bypassers cannot see in. We take the plunge into one smoke filled den - I am the only woman aside from three staff. Heavily made up, middle aged women whose job appears to be to come by and in various languages incite us to drink more. One places what she describes a 'tapas' in front of us, explaining 'if you eat, you might buy more beer'. The tapas is a plate of pickled vegetables and three rather large dried fish. We leave sober and hungry, but amused.

We also track down a pair of shiny silver tracksuit pants which Matt lovingly hems at mid-calf for me. I mope while I watch him do this. The advice we have received is that lycra won't go down so well with the Moroccan public, and that Matt needs to at least wear boardshorts over his knicks, while I should ensure my knees are covered in order to avoid unwanted attention or giving offence. Although winter, it is still quite warm here - warm enough that the thought of riding in trackies leaves me pretty irritated. Still, one day of riding down and I have realised what a spectacle we are even more modestly dressed. I'll grin and bear it.

Our first day of African cycling has been a success - the roads are good, and truck drivers happy to warn of their approach with a heavy hand on the horn. We wave to everyone we pass, and cheerfully yell 'donkey donkey' at the numerous healthy looking specimens we spot. Our plan is to make our way down the west coast as far as Rabat, before heading inland to Fez and across the Middle Atlas to Marrakesh.

Matt - Statistics 3

katescarlett — Mon, 2 Dec 2013 04:39:00 GMT

Here are some more stats from my Garmin:

	Italy, France, Spain	Balkans	Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia	Scotland	Scandinavia
Count:	33 Activities	29 Activities	13 Activities	41 Activities	32 Activities
Distance:	2,083.31	2,219.43	971.43	1,986.34	2,470.06
Time:	97:13:01 h:m:s	105:56:42 h:m:s	46:32:12 h:m:s	99:58:55 h:m:s	127:18:58 h:m:s
Elevation Gain:	15,289 m	25,345 m	12,569 m	21,268 m	21,723 m
Avg Speed:	21.4 km/h	20.9 km/h	20.9 km/h	19.9 km/h	19.4 km/h
Avg HR:	118 bpm	126 bpm	126 bpm	118 bpm	95 bpm
Avg Run Cadence:	--	--	--	--	--
Avg Bike Cadence:	76 rpm	79 rpm	81 rpm	84 rpm	77 rpm
Calories:	41,322 C	42,226 C	19,653 C	42,496 C	57,009 C
Avg Distance:	63.13 km	76.53 km	74.73 km	48.45 km	77.19 km
Median Distance:	78.59 km	90.18 km	88.20 km	40.38 km	83.85 km
Max Distance:	114.18 km	128.05 km	114.94 km	112.54 km	123.62 km
Avg Time:	2:56:45 h:m:s	3:39:12 h:m:s	3:34:47 h:m:s	2:26:19 h:m:s	3:58:43 h:m:s
Median Time:	3:41:51 h:m:s	4:21:09 h:m:s	4:12:15 h:m:s	2:12:17 h:m:s	4:15:47 h:m:s
Max Time:	4:58:05 h:m:s	5:58:47 h:m:s	5:29:49 h:m:s	5:31:21 h:m:s	5:52:44 h:m:s
Avg Elevation Gain:	463 m	874 m	967 m	519 m	679 m
Median Elevation Gain:	305 m	906 m	833 m	460 m	516 m
Max Elevation Gain:	2,047 m	1,721 m	2,782 m	1,495 m	2,120 m
Elevation Loss:	15,439 m	24,236 m	10,916 m	20,865 m	21,755 m
Avg Elevation Loss:	468 m	836 m	840 m	509 m	680 m
Median Elevation Loss:	324 m	896 m	767 m	434 m	506 m
Max Elevation Loss:	1,981 m	1,648 m	2,702 m	1,495 m	2,104 m
Max Avg Speed:	24.7 km/h	25.8 km/h	24.6 km/h	23.2 km/h	23.4 km/h
Max Speed:	58.1 km/h	58.8 km/h	65.4 km/h	66.3 km/h	65.2 km/h
Max Avg HR:	143 bpm	137 bpm	150 bpm	177 bpm	163 bpm
Max HR:	227 bpm	218 bpm	253 bpm	253 bpm	251 bpm
Metres of elevation gain per km cycled (commas are decimal points)	7,339	11,420	12,939	10,707	8,795
Number of dogs which chased us	0	16	0	0	0
Number of slugs that fell out of trees onto Matt while cycling	0	1	0	0	0
Number of unloaded passes (have to be over 2000m high, and contain 500m of climb)	0	0	1	0	0
Number of touring passes (must be over 1000m high, and contain 250m of climbing. Bike must be fully loaded)	1	4	1	0	1

The good news is, we´re getting faster. This may be because I have made Kate take all of my gear and ride at the front all the time. It may also be because we are a bit stronger at grinding out longish days in the saddle; because I am navigating better, and therefore having to stop less; and because we tend to be avoiding unsealed roads like we rode on in Scandinavia.

The Switzerland, Slovenia and Austria leg was the hilliest so far, going off metres of height gain per kilometres cycled. This is largely because we spent a bit of time with the panniers off, and riding with Fernando and Johanna who tried to kill us with hills. Austria, Switzerland and Slovenia are also bloody hilly. The Balkans were also very hilly (an average daily climb of nearly 900m!), and we did almost all of these hills with the panniers on. The average speed for this leg was quite high as well, and this is probably largely because we were almost constantly being chased by dogs, as the table above shows.

We have completed 8 passes in total (touring and unlodaded) but also had two near passes... 1950-odd metres. However, Fernando does not allow us to count any pass as a real pass unless it goes over 2000m, so these shall not be counted. Even though one of them was Mont Ventoux, And the other involved 1400m of climb. Stupid Fernando and his stupid system.

Matt - (almost) everyone loves a man with a beard

katescarlett — Sun, 1 Dec 2013 07:55:00 GMT

I admit that I´m not entirely sure what people are saying to me most of the time, given that they are speaking Spanish, and I speak better sign language than I do Spanish.

Anyway, we walked into a nice looking cafe in a rougher area of Malaga a couple of days ago. As we entered, the owner looked me up and down with malice in her eyes, before softening and saying 'oh, you are on bicycles! I thought you were a Roma.' Then she felt so guilty that she gave us free lollies.

Two months without a shave or haircut, and I think it may be time.

10,000 kms in the sun aint long enough...

katescarlett — Sat, 30 Nov 2013 04:02:00 GMT

Some places have reputations that precede them. We make a point of visiting places like Venice and Barcelona, arriving with high expectations which are, of course, not disappointed. As a tourist, they are near impossible to dislike. We have the luxury of time to visit more out of the way places, and are lucky to discover gems. So it was with Marbella on the southern Spanish coast. Perhaps the Brits who have invaded the Costa del Sol are more familiar with it, but this pair of Aussies had never heard of it. We stopped there for no better reason than because it was 100kms from our start point the previous day. I expected a monster tourist town full of 60's high rise and multilingual menus offering fish and chips . Not a pretty old town with white marble paved streets and pretty public squares lined with orange trees. (Not yet ripe although they looked it... I optimistically tested more than a few...)

In the evening, we donned our best jeans and sneakers and joined the locals for the evening promenade. Christmas lights and carols filled the streets. Six golden angels on stilts marched by, accompanied by an elf and a oriental king, singing 'Navidad, Navidad'. Three bulldogs watched from a second floor balcony, a little confused by the spectacle.

The decision to dodge bad weather in southern France in favour of riding through Andalucia has been a good one. There have been stretches where we have had no choice but to ride on the motorway, and days of passing nothing but greenhouses. Some plains look silver because they are utterly covered in plastic roofing. It is not pretty and probably not environmentally friendly, but it does look like they are feeding Europe. Occasionally we have headed farther from the coast into barren land that looks deserted, although there is the odd bar that looks like something out of a Robert Rodriguez movie and thus best avoided. But in all, the sun is out, the beaches are beautiful, paella makes great cycling fuel and we get to ride along pretending we are cowboys on the lookout for banditos hiding in the hills.

A few days ago we finally clocked 10,000kms. It was Bertie the bike who chose to remind us of this momentous occasion by demanding immediate replacement of chain, cassette, and cogs. But now, he is born again, as smooth a ride as ever. Meanwhile, the humans are starting to look like scrappy perpetual travellers. Matt has a beard like a swagman. I wear jeans with old racing flats like it is normal. But noone seems to mind.

Matt - How to win at intrepid cycletouring

katescarlett — Thu, 28 Nov 2013 06:06:00 GMT

Any misconceptions we had that we were in any way intrepid in our choices of mode of transport or destinations have been obliterated during this tour. Bosnia, Morocco, Montenegro a mountain bike trail in Norway. Kid's stuff.

Recently we spent a day hanging out with a guy who rode right around the world, including crossing the Gobi desert in China and Kazakhstan. We also hung out with Ausilia, who competes annually in a dogsled race across Alaska, which takes a month. But she does it on a bicycle. Last year she had to push it for 400 kilometres. We've met cycletourists with their children, one of whom was carrying 60 kilograms worth of baby and gear. We have met two cyclists with blow up rafts so that they could put their bikes in the raft, and float downstream. We heard of an Aussie, cycletouring through hilly scotland on a fully loaded fixie (campsite owner 'He had legs like tree trunks'). We've even heard of guys going through jungle in South America for several hundred kilometres, through areas with no roads!

But, 'dogs!' we thought. Although there is evidence of people touring with their pooches on the interweb, we thought that may be a way of scraping into the 'slightly intrepid' category. Until today. 'Mattie! Look left!' yelled Kate. And there was a man cycletouring with three dogs. Goddamnit. To beat him, we're going to need a kennel licence.

So, it appears that to win this game, we are either going to have to combine everything (three children, four dogs, race across Alaska, with a raft) or become the first cycletourists to complete a lap of the moon.

Instant karma

katescarlett — Sun, 24 Nov 2013 08:24:00 GMT

Our final day in Barcelona feels like it may be my final day ever. We are hammering through heavy city traffic like Melbourne bike couriers - red lights and trucks be damned - trailing in the wake of Dan, who has offered to take us on a two wheel tour of the city. Dan has given up what sounds like a sensible geological engineering career to run cycling trips leading tourists up alpine passes all summer. This appears to have resulted in enhanced speed, power, bike handling skills and overall life satisfaction. I have to work hard to keep up, particularly while wearing jeans definitely not designed for cycling. Apologies to all those I passed...

We sprint up the hills north of the old town, pausing to admire the moasics at Park Guell. We roll back down to gape in awe at the Sagrada Familia. We run through two stop signs to get to the art nouveau hospital that is so beautiful it makes you wonder why people don't make themselves ill to score a stay. It's nail biting, but also alot of fun.

From Barcelona, oure plan is to bus to Murcia and then ride south to Gibraltar. This is still our plan, although Matt's bicycle Babar has thrown an allen key in the works. I suspect he wanted a stay in the Barcelona hosital himself, but his damage was detected too late. On the highway just outside Murcia we realise there is a crack in the downtube of the frame. We about turn, Matt riding all the way back without sitting down. After some searching, a bike shop is located. We converse through google translate, and they make a number of phone calls, with the eventual result that two men turn up with a trailer, load up Matt and his bike and disappear. I have no idea where they are off to, or how to contact Matt. So I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. And finally, after the bike shop has shut and I am sitting on the footpath with one bike and a pile of panniers, I hear a familiar bike bell ring.

Matt tells me he was dropped off in a shed by the two men and left awhile before a third man turned up, girlfriend and dog in tow. Matt's spanish was as good as their english ( which is about as good as my swahili, if some kind of measure is needed). He was left to play with the dog while backyard surgery was performed. A few welds and a dab of paint later, and Babar is a new man/bike/elephant. The welder-surgeon refused any kind of payment and sent Matt on his way.

We have thrown ourselves upon the kindness of strangers alot lately, and come out smiling.

Matt - Drugs, booze and hookers

katescarlett — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 06:10:00 GMT

Not for my dearest the kind of hovels that others may consider to be valid hotels. No, for her only the best. Hence, I booked Kate and I into the ´Pension Miami´here in Barcelona. We stepped into the room, and were pleased to discover the high standard of decor, even higher than what we had expected. The enormous mirror on the ceiling was a subtle touch, and the painting of the naked woman with the lilly-white breasts highlighting her bikini tan-line was as wonderful as many I have seen in galleries around the world. I don´t think cycletourists are the usual clientele they receive at the hotel.

We had a night on the town to celebrate being in Barcelona, and at about 2 in the morning, having dragged our martini-full bellies home, I asked the concierge where I may find a convenience store or supermarket, as I had a burning desire for crisps. She pointed me just outside, and off I went. I wandered for about 20 minutes, and could find nothing, so headed back. ´Just there´she said ón the other side of the square,´so I headed off again, and found nothing. When I came back she asked if I´d found what I was looking for, and upon telling her that I hadn´t she replied ´really? you´re the first one ever!´All I could find were young men offering me booze and drugs. She must have thought I was the worst drug buyer ever.

The tyranny of choice

katescarlett — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 05:54:00 GMT

We cycled westwards along the French coast from La Grand Motte. The landscape reminds me of Pinocchio´s Land of Toys after all the candy-loving children have been transformed into donkeys. Scattered throughout the sanddunes are abandoned theme parks - roller coasters and quirky play castles. Campgrounds with dedicated waterslide complexes. All for children, all deserted. The paddocks are given over to horses (perhaps French children gone bad?), and the only person we see is a woman searching through shrubbery to find the wheel that has fallen off her trailer. The clouds are gathering as we roll into Sete, which bills itself as the French Venice. At least on Wikipedia. It has a canal, and some pizza restaurants, so I suppose in that respect it is a little like Venice.

As the weather grows worse, we head for Narbonne. From there, we are forced to make a difficult decision. Time on our visa is running out, and we could catch a train straight to Barcelona, then down south to where the weather is warmer and ride there. Or we could spend three days riding into driving rain with cross-winds that threaten to blow us under trucks. Like heroes from cycling legends of old. We debate these options at length. Essentially they boil down to whether we are strong or weak. Finally I declare ´oh sod it - lets just ride. It won´t kill us...´ Matt agrees. It will indeed be fine. We are on the road ten kilometres before Matt stops pedalling, pulls over and says ´Do you want to go to Barcelona today?´ My numb fingers answer before stubborn pride has time to interject. So now, this lily livered pair are enjoying sunny, windless Barcelona. We have spent the day hunting for Roman city walls with Xavi, a Catalan cycle tourist and wonderful guide. He recently returned from a 15 month cycling tour around the world. He arrived in Placa de Catalunya to find hundreds of friends, family and followers waiting him, and a media scrum. A book deal followed... Matt would like a small string quartet and red carpet. I think I´ll be happy with a friendly hello from the Customs official.

Provence degustation

katescarlett — Sun, 17 Nov 2013 07:03:00 GMT

An old man stands in the forecourt of the old stone hospital in Carpentras, hands deep in pockets and stamping his feet against the cold. From time to time he pulls a pink plastic bag from his pocket and examines the black lumps inside. The old hospital is called the 'Hotel Dieu', which i presume translates as 'God's Hotel',which has certain ring to it. Today,though,it is home to the first truffle market of the season. We have dragged ourselves from a warm bed into the brisk autumn morning to watch as local dignitaries gather,dressed in robes like extras from harry potter. There is a uniformed chef,some slick commercial operators selling neat baskets with black lumps the size of golf balls, a politician who to my bewilderment seizes my hand and shakes it while beaming 'Bonjour!',and my old man who looks out of place and nervous. I hope he got what his truffles were worth.

We arrived in Carpentras by way of a route from Torino to the French coast, past the glitter of Monte Carlo boutiques and the perfect blue ocean at Nice. Between znice and Cannes we were held up by le mistral and the Nice marathon. We watched sympathetically as runners floundered into a head wind that had reduced our riding speed to walking pace. Eventually we gave up on coastal riding and headed inland seeking respite from the wind. This meant rolling through the lavender fields and vineyards of Provence. It also meant I had a second opportunity to drag myself up Mont Ventoux.

Last time I was here, the mountain left me shattered and wanting my mother. Fortunatelyon that occasion said mother was waiting in a nearby cafe. This time, I had Matt,who I knew was waiting at the top. The longer I took the more frostbite would be catching up with him. If he was to keep his nose,I had to get to him... On the way up I rolled over vestiges of last years tour de france. Stencilled kangaroos and 'carn cadel' painted on the asphalt.

A few more days now in France before we head into Spain. Winter is here and we are looking forward to some warmer riding down south. I am also looking forward to finding a computer so I dont have to update the blog via a kindle!

Photos: Croatia 2

katescarlett — Fri, 8 Nov 2013 04:02:00 GMT

matt - goodbye to the balkans and a word on animals

katescarlett — Tue, 5 Nov 2013 05:28:00 GMT

...and before we got to wonderful Italy, we finished off our Balkans loop.

Considering that the Balkans were a last minute addition to our itinerary as a result of the dreaded 3-month Schengen visa limitations, I am extremely glad that our hand was forced. Montenegro is leading our list of best cycling destinatinations from this trip. Sparse traffic, lovely people, beautiful towns and stunning coastline and mountains. I think that some more time there, but with climbing gear, mountain bikes, sea kayaks, hiking gear and some of those suits that let you jump off a mountain and zoom about like a swallow would be extremely well spent.

From Montenegro we headed along the dalmation coast, which was sadly lacking in dalmations. I figured 30 or so would have been more than enough to make kate a lovely new cycling jersey, but alas we saw none. What we did see, though, were olive groves, pommegranite trees (not one of which managed to avoid kate's ever aware fruit seeking fingers), vineyards, and miles and miles of adriatic-blue sea. Although we knew very little about most of the towns were cycling through, each was a rare surprise, often shoehorned onto a tniy island, surrounded by medieval walls, and watched over by ramparts and steeples. zadar was bustling and lively, with old churches and modern art, and trogir was a nugget of medieval buildings ringed by sailing boats.

we finished up the balkans leg by spending five days in istria, a peninsula which has been both italian and slavic in its recent history, and has the feel of both. We drank wine, read books, and rolled around without panniers on, a luxury when cycletouring.

we then headed for trieste... as kate has just written

A word on animals..

With both of us being a bit animal-mad, this trip has had the added excitement of seeming like a safari. Kate never misses a border collie, while I am the roadkill identification expert. Admittedly, I don't stop to take photos like the German boy we met on a train, but that doesn't mean I'm not taking my job seriously. We have also taken it upon ourselves to come up with a new nomenclature for cat and dog breeds and colours. No longer do we see labrador crosses, tortoiseshell cats or greyhounds. Instead, we come across Doctor BamBams, King Tamatamas, black dogs, and ghosts of black dog. Someone please notify crufts.

Our most important task, however, is to identify doctor scruffies, or dogs who would be suitable touring partners. They must be scruffy, light, have a happy disposition, and most importantly, a tail like a flag. While we have seen several and invitec them to apply, we are yet to select the appropriate candidate. The search is ongoing.

Oh, and we have also seen wheeling vultures, green snakes, silver fish, buzzards, a golden eagles,red deer, mice, and heard jackals howling.

scary monsters and nice sprites

katescarlett — Tue, 5 Nov 2013 04:32:00 GMT

A derelict guard station at a border crossing and a small sign that reads 'Italia' and we are into the spiritual home of cyclists. It is EU to EU, after all, so noone stamps our passports or otherwise acknowledges our arrival. We take it upon ourselves to yell 'viva italia!' as we roll down the hill from Slovemia into Trieste. After weeks of bike free roads we are suddenly surrounded by riders of all ages, who wave and call 'ciao' as they pass. My bianchi receives nods of approval from old men throwing back espresso after espresso in cafe bars. Cars don't hoot cheerily like they do in the balkans, but they drive like people are used to bikes.

In Trieste, Matt has kindly researched and found us a place to stay, which just happens to be 300 metres above sea level, starting from sea level. I climb off and push my fukly [an appropriate typo - ed] loaded bike for two kilometres up a 13% hill, calves burning in a way that would make Lou Ferrigno proud. The spagghetti con vongole at the top feels well earned.

From Trieste, we head for Venice. The ferry ticket seller looks at our bikes in disbelief. There are no bikes in Venice. No way. She would like to help us, but probabky the police would stop us. After much deliberation, we leave the bikes behind and head for what is arguably the most beautiful city in Europe. All built on wooden pylons driven into the sea. Amazing! Ridiculous! Almost as ridiculous as the wealth poured into venetian churches. I inform Matt that should I cark it, I expect a tomb like Titian's. He says it is too expensive. I am unimpressed. I think it is an appropriate time to make the request, since the streets are awash with small ghouls and witches, who clearly have Venetian parents capable of making halloween stylish.

We wave farewell to Venice and start making our way across the flat lands of northern italy towards Torino. En route, we stop a night with the adorable Enrico, crazy mountain and enduro cyclist with the energy and humour of an imp. We pass through Mantua, Piacenza and are now in Lomello, staying with Ausilia, a Paris Brest Paris cyclist who lives beside a tumble down church built in 1200 AD which her brother now uses to store the rice he harvests.

Torino tomorrow, if Matt can get the chewing gum off his knicks..

Matt - A word on testicles

katescarlett — Mon, 21 Oct 2013 01:13:00 GMT

The other day, while having a coffee with a couple of Slovenians we had just met in a little cafe on Korčula, Croatia, a slightly mad-looking quite-old woman sat down on the table near us and ordered an espresso.

After sipping for a second, she wandered over to our table, said something to me in Serbo-Croat, and gave my bare knee a rub. One of our new Slovenian friends kindly interpreted what she had said: 'she says you have nice legs.' At this, she laughed a bit, and said something else, rubbing more and more vigorously, and higher and higher, until she glanced one of my testicles. At this point, I grabbed her hand, said 'thank you,' and off she tottered. Much mirth was had by all.

This caused me to wonder, why had I waited so long before grabbing her hand in a firm but polite rebuff? I can assure you, dear reader, that I was not desirous of having my testicle make anyone's acquaintance in such a fashion. I am sure that there is some interesting psychology at play here, but as best as I can figure out:

1. I am in a new country, and am not always sure of the greeting customs, and am therefore prepared to let things go a bit further than I ordinarily would in Aus. For the same reason, I leaned in for a cheek kiss from a gentleman in Montenegro a week ago having seen others do the same in Bosnia. However, I believe I may have misread the situation, as I had to do a sharp veer at the last moment, and pretend I had stumbled.

2. I did not expect that a kindly leg rub would migrate upwards in such a fashion from such a lady. I was taken by surprise in other words.

3. I was applying gender stereotypes... women do not usually manhandle men, men usually manhandle women. I was therefore not expecting to have my men handled at all.

4. We had just weathered a storm of epic proportions, the sun was coming out, I had had half a beer, and I was therefore feeling relaxed. Not that relaxed though.

If anyone can provide and further explanations, I would be most grateful.

Misty mountain hops, and houses of the holy

katescarlett — Sun, 13 Oct 2013 00:10:00 GMT

He's pulled the bike over and is looking serious.

'Why are you laughing when I point out a snake to you?'

'A what?'

'Over there. A snake! So you don't run over it!'

I look where he is pointing. He actually isn't lying. A long silver snake is sunning itself on the mountain road.

There is precedent for my laughter. The previous evening, we arrived at Rijeka Crnojevića as dusk was falling. It was cold and we were damp after a long day of climbing. We pulled in at the first building with a texta sign in the window advertising 'Sobe - Rooms - Zimmer'. A dark, wood lined pub, owned by an older gentleman named Ivo who was at a bit of a loose end with no customers and a wife currently in Russia awaiting the birth of her first grandson. He had lived in Burnley for a while and was happy to chat about Australia, politics in Montenegro and Serbia, various folk remedies for liver ailments and the finer points of rakia making. He poured us a rakia upon arrival, which we politely sipped. Then dug out bottle after bottle of brews, some filled with nettle leaves, some with plums, some plain. His favourite, he explained, was the one he had the most of at any given time. Several shots later, I plead cold and head to find a shower. Upon my return, I find Matt has valiantly tried a few more. We go for dinner, and return to find Ivo waiting with 'just one more' glass lined up. He has an odd understanding of the concept of 'one'. Several hours later, I find myself taking photographs of Matt, who wants me to get his best 'pointy monkey' angle in tribute to a cartoon character.

So I don't think it unfair that my first assumption is that his pointing is a reprise. But nothing is funny for Matt today. Having valiantly accepted Montenegrin hospitality, he must now valiantly climb 1100 metres up in order to ride the dizzying serpentine road down to Kotor on the Montenegrin coast. Poor pointy monkey.

We entered Montenegro after a night in Foca near the Bosnian/Montenegrin border. After Foca, which carries the weight of a long and particularly unpleasant history, even by Bosnian standards, it was refreshing to cross the border and wheel through the spectacular Tara River Canyon. The second deepest canyon in the world, with the road running halfway up through a series of tunnels that open out onto spectacular vistas. We stop a night in quiet Niksic, then on to Ostrog Monastery, built high up on a cliff. There I don my most monastery appropriate clothing, which makes me look Amish, but no-one complains. They are too busy kissing stone walls in search of good health. From Ostrog, we head to the Montenegrin capital of Podgorica. (It is not a picturesque old capital. It feels a little like Canberra, only in Podgorica it is possible to get a decent coffee...) On then for a brief detour into Albania, around Lake Skodar, through forests of pomegranate trees. We stop two nights in Albania, where we explore ruined castles and stay in a transformed spanish style villa. Back, now, into Montenegro, where we see the sea for the first time in weeks.

Photos: Croatia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Albania

katescarlett — Wed, 9 Oct 2013 18:41:00 GMT

Matt - Bosnia and Montenegro, and a word on Advance Australia Fair

katescarlett — Wed, 9 Oct 2013 03:20:00 GMT

So here we sit in a cute hostel in Shkoder, Albania, having travelled through Bosnia and Montenegro to get here, and it's a chance to collect our thoughts. Bosnia is so hard to write about, because as Kate mentioned in her last post, while the country has a lot going for it, the shadow of the war is never far away. Sarajevo was fascinating - as one Bosnian lady pointed out to us there is a mosque, an eastern orthodox cathedral, a catholic cathedral and a synagogue all within a 200 metre radius. The only other place in the world where you can find such a mix is Israel. But the only significant museum operating is focused entirely on the seige of Sarajevo. Bullet holes and stray dogs are ubiquitous. But for all that, the city is buzzing, and I loved it there.

Being in Bosnia and Montenegro and having had the opportunity to talk to some lovely and intelligent people has brought three things into sharp focus for me.

Firstly, a life in which opportunity for progression is limited is an extremely hard life. We've spoken to numerous young Bosnians and Montenegrans who are educated, friendly and intelligent, but in spite of this, many can only see a future of graft and unemployment, confined to the Balkans. The average monthly salary is Bosnia is US$563, and in Montenegro US$618. In albania it is just US$264 a month. Compare this to Australia where we earn on average US$2900, and it is obvious that while we are able to take our Aussie dollars and jet off overseas on cycling holidays, the majority of people here cannot. (These figures are from Wikipedia, so I wouldn't take them as gospel, but they provide a good indication). With a good education and careful saving a life can be crafted in their own country, with maybe a trip to Croatia now and again as a splurge, but any further afield is pretty much out of the question. The idea of being confined to Australia makes me feel quite claustrophobic, and I really feel for the people we've spoken to.

With this in mind, it is obvious that Australia is in danger of becoming (if it has not already) a greedy little country filled with closed-minded people who do not understand just how lucky we are. That sounds preachy, but it makes me angry. The nature of the debate leading to the last election, the racist debate about asylum seekers clothed in a narrative of 'asylum seeker safety' indicates a general unwillingness to share anything that we have. As this excelle nt article points out - mattcowgill.wordpress.com/2013/05/13/what-is-the-typical-australians-income-in-2013/ - points out, households on $150,000, or even $200,000 a year are being portrayed, and seem to genuinely believe, that they are 'battlers.' These people earn far more than not only the majority of the rest of the world, but the majority of other Australians as well, and yet they are still unhappy. Consider that the average Australian donates just AU$460 to charity each year, and the picture that begins to be painted of the generosity of the average Australian is not a pretty one. All Australians, including those who are well off of, of course have a right to enjoy their wealth without feeling guilty for the luck and opportunity that they have, and to strive for further progress in their own lives. However, a better understanding of our position in the world, and the luck that we have, may just lead to better policy outcomes, and a step back towards the 'egalitarian society' Australia likes to think of itself as. Until that happens, I think we really need to consider ditching the third verse of the National Anthem:

'...For those who've come across the seas

We've boundless plains to share...'

Finally, and back to Bosnia - the country just doesn't seem to me like it can move on until politics moves away from ethnicity based-alignment, to policy-based alignment. At present, I believe, all political parties are ethnically aligned, rather than policy based. And people vote for the party that represents their ethnicity, rather than choosing a political philosophy that they believe in, and voting accordingly. Almost everyone that we spoke to from Bosnia and Montenegro (granted, this was not a particularly large sample!) mentioned their ethnicity in passing conversation without any prompting from us. This focus on ethnicity seems to me to be particularly divisive, and I hope that future generations can align themselves in different ways rather than just by their ethnicity (and hence religion). Solutions? No idea. And I certainly do not claim to be an expert... the region is so complex. And yet, so great. Montenegro may be the perfect cycling destination. And Albania, in our short time here, the friendliest. In Melbourne they honk to warn you that they are going to drive over you. In Albania, it's a cheery 'hello.'

So... with that, it's dinner time...

God bless you - you're crazy

katescarlett — Mon, 30 Sep 2013 03:37:00 GMT

I was hoping I could take Basil Fawlty's advice. I thought that perhaps I could wax lyrical only about how beautiful Bosnia is, how kind the people, how interesting the cities. But that would leave a rather large elephant sitting in the room. I'm a tourist - I see first what is dramatically different when compared with home. The subtleties, if they come, come later.

I have to mention the war.

We approach Bosnia through Croatia. Our first few Croatian days are relaxing ones. First, a visit to what feels like the Croatian Hotel California. A spa resort with thermal pools and 'Croatia's biggest sauna complex', it seems like the perfect way to relax tired muscles. In the height of summer it might be teeming, but on the cusp of autumn, we have the run of the place to ourselves. We spend an evening floating alone in glamourous swimming pools beneath what looks like the roof of a school gymnasium, Bon Jovi's greatest hits blasting.

Then, a couple of days relaxing in a campground by a river at Duga Resa with a young German couple. Matt swims. I read. We all adopt a haunted looking black dog who slinks around the edges of the campsite. He is the first of many stray dogs to come.

From Duga Resa we cycle to Bihac in Bosnia, which we have been told is beautiful. The approach towards the Bosnian border is through rolling fields and tiny villages. At first, they look like places where people are comfortable. Chickens in the yards. Apple trees. Gardens. As we ride on, however, more and more of the houses are deserted and riddled with bullet holes. For some reason, I had expected more of this once we crossed the orange line on our map into Bosnia, but it starts far earlier. For some reason, I expect it to worsen when we do pass through the border crossing, queuing up on our bicycles behind cars and tractors. But it isn't. We cross the border into Velika Kladusa, and the streets are bursting with school children on their lunch breaks. There are fruit stalls, bakeries that smell fabulous, and the call to prayer cutting through it all. This lively city is not what I had expected.

Bihac, too, feels busy. A pretty town on the Una River, which is a popular rafting destination. Although it looks like people are doing o.k, there are still burnt out buildings between houses on otherwise normal suburban streets. We go out for dinner. Even before we have ordered, our waiter has already told us about his ambition to get away from Bihac and work on cruise ships. He is about 23 and looks like Hercules. He tells us that even though he has just finished university and is a qualified rafting guide, there is nothing for him in Bosnia.

'The rich have too much. The poor have not. It doesn't matter if you are a good person. There is nothing for me here.'

He asks where we are off to next. We tell him about our travels. He laughs. 'God bless you. You're crazy.'

From Bihac, we go to Sanski Most, and then on to historic Jajce, which has fortifications still standing that were used (unsuccessfully) to fight off the Ottoman's in the 1400's. On the way we stop for some pretty good coffee at little coffee shops where you can have coffee or rakia or beer. That's it. Food is definitely not on the menu. At one, we are talked at by an elderly man with a face like a walnut. His companion explains several times that we can't understand. We look apologetic, but he carries on, waving his arms wildly, until suddenly his face lights up with realisation.

'Ah - they're Slovenian!'

Yes. That would be it.

Riding in Bosnia is different to the riding we have done so far. While we would normally look for the smallest roads because they are quiet, here we are better off on the freeways because they're sealed. When Matt looks at the map and comments that he thinks we might struggle to find somewhere for a coffee and a break, I point out a cluster of houses on a nearby hill and suggest confidently that we must be able to get a coffee there. Here, houses do not necessarily equal people. There is no-one here, and trees push their way through the floors of the buildings which no longer have roofs.

Despite all this, Bosnia is genuinely beautiful. The ride along the River Una is stunning (just don't step off the asphalt...) Autumn is coming, and the hills are turning red. The coffee is good. The beer is good. The people we speak to are friendly, and while we get stared at alot, a wave and smile gets one back.