elastigirl72

[elastigirl72]

Crossroads

You are only one decision away from a totally different life…

In 2021, I took a leap of faith. I had a job with a brilliant employer, but for some time, I’d been looking to grow into a role that didn’t materialise. I could have cruised on in my comfortable slippers, and most likely would have. Out of the blue, as things can be, I was approached about a role that seemed to tick a lot of boxes, but came with calculated risk as any new position and company might. I accepted the risk, put on my trainers and started running. At the back of my mind, I knew if it didn’t work out, it would be ok. I was prepared to work hard, and try to be an employer pleaser. In only one month of employment, there followed a series of unpredictable and unfortunate events. I very quickly felt that work had taken over every aspect of me; I did what I could to manage the situation, but after a lot of heartache, and only 2 months in, I resigned.

The decision was a frightening one. I was doing a great job, despite the challenges, but the situation challenged my whole being. It is probably a common story for people. I was blessed with a good salary, I’d been welcomed with open arms and my colleagues were extraordinarily dedicated. For them, time didn’t exist, it would seem. Anytime, any place, anywhere. Maybe this was their mountain and their calling. I got to know some of them relatively well for what was such a short time. With my decisions, fear came not from failure, but more from “what next?” Whilst I’d reconciled the risk before I took the position, I didn’t foresee how desperate I’d feel and so soon.

Whilst you’d never think reflecting on the demise of a parent could end in anything positive, but in the following year to that resignation, I’d be 10 years younger than my mum was when she died, suddenly, and sadly, as in her last weeks, she’d made a very clear commitment to sort her life out and shared this with me. I was so proud of her. She was an alcoholic since I could remember. She had to change or it would kill her. It was that simple. And she finally committed and three weeks later, she died. When she passed, she was 10 years older than I am now. With this perspective, if you knew, what would you do and when? Would you wait or seize the day? At my age, everything is becoming fragile. I’m amazed I can still keep going.

The resignation came first and for a short while, relief, then wilderness…how would I keep going for the three month notice I had to work, and what next? Chase a career? Pick up my massage business?

It was Mark who told me to plan an adventure. COVID or not. Whatever I did, he’d be there when I got back. There would never be a more perfect opportunity, he said. He’d look after Nyla but if I didn’t come home, he’d not be too happy. If I was being flippant, I’d say he needed a break from my relentless dramatics. Maybe that’s true, but from what I know, he wanted me to have the same opportunities that he had in the army before he settled down. Having got a dog, had my amazing children, a well established mortgage, everything on interest free credit, a car, countless bills, and next to no savings, how on earth could I make this work? I couldn’t afford 6 months off…And then, what about him? Forget any risk of me dying and not coming home, how could he let me go?

There it was. October, the first iteration of international flights and tickets were booked. I hadn’t yet figured out the finances. The house was sold and I planned to use some equity to fund the trip. That fell through 4 weeks before I was due to depart. It was time to get smart.

I sold my car, time trial bike, countless bike possessions, paid off some credit, changed some aspects of the mortgage and boom! Reduced my expenditure by two thirds. It wasn’t going to give me a free 6 month ticket, but I had untangled myself from all the things that would hold me in full time employment, even if only for a while, and allow me to throw all the life balls up in the air and see what landed. This was more liberating than handing in my notice. I never really thought this day would come. But here it is: sat in El Chalten, looking at the most incredible mountain view I have ever had the privilege of seeing first hand, considering my next career as a mountaineer, batting back every barrier that comes my way. Knee - smash, COVID - try to stop me. Dentist butcher: how much were you paid to take me down? You failed. And ****, money: pah! The dogs on the streets over here look pretty happy despite their lack of a home and a grooming routine. They never look in a mirror. They just are. So here’s to the dogs, Mark, freedom, frivolity, adventure and dreams.

Before I left, I completed my first ever official will, and sorted out some life insurance. Everything’s gonna be ok! 🤩.

The ride

Tuesday

I spent the night in my little house again, buffeted by the winds, not feeling entirely sure that the house wouldn’t get blown away like Dorothy’s home in the Wizard of Oz. I again prayed to the bike gods for a tailwind for the day…or whatever I could get. They delivered for 2/3 of the route, which any cycling nut will know is as good as it gets. I’d prepared myself for the worst. There was not a single dwelling for 125km as I entered my first ever desert, Patagonia. I’d anticipated the same insane wind bashing as my ride to the glacier the day before, and for a while, it certainly happened. But each time the road edged right, a little reprieve and my heart jumped with joy. I tried taking a photo on the Rio Santa Cruz Bridge but couldn’t even hold my phone steady. It was comical. I believed it to be possible that my bike would blow off the bridge and into the river, but I tried.

About two km later, I felt like a female David Attenborough on wheels. Some 4 legged creature that might have been a llama - perhaps an impala? I still haven’t researched it. 1 Km later…a road runner - and her 55km babies???? I thought I’d entered the South American Serengeti. Whilst I never stopped being flabbergasted by the extreme epicness of the desert, I expected soon to see all characters from the Lion King. Disappointingly, the remainder of the desert saw 13 wild horses and a collection of sun-dried carcasses who didn’t quite make it over the fence that was designed to protect them. Despite these disappointing observations, every encouraging horn beep put me on Cloud 9. This for me was heaven on a place called Earth.

Fitz Roy Mountain sunk its claws into me like sirens calling me to them. I didn’t know that it would be this that would keep me awake and weaken my resolve to head north until the sun disappeared, but it did.

I arrived at Tres Lagos trying to break my ten mile time trial personal best, regardless of baggage and winds. I’d forgotten that I’d changed my bike computer to miles per hour. 29. Not bad. OMG! 29 miles per hour on the flat. 31! I smashed it into my destination spot for the day! Whatever happened next, who cared? My first, planned and followed route complete. Tres Lagos, you little town with no restaurants and only dogs for company, I’ve arrived 💪.

[elastigirl72]

Not Tour D'Espagna

Saturday 7-Sunday 8 August

Time for an update!

Things didn't get better after my Wednesday post, in fact Thursday turned a hotel room with a view into a room in purgatory: overlooking paradise but no possibility to be immersed. It is just as well Tim is a friend and we are not an item as this day would have been the last for any sturdy relationship! Yet somehow, Tim stayed positive! As day turned to night, it was clear that I couldn't set out on Friday and he'd have to go alone into the mountains. This was to be Tim's first solo day adventuring, and a lesson in "essential kit" finished with a neat Newbury Velo Tote bag filled with 1.75kg of kit to be sent home the next morning. Questions like "what if it rains?" met responses of "find a cafe" 😊.

As the body snatchers continued to ravage me, around 8am, the final battle royale took place in my stomach, for which the noises could be heard from the bull ring in Pamplona, Tim set off, excited and quiet, and dare I say, slightly nervous of the monumental days ahead. I set off after breakfast to the train station and failed to find a way of getting to Girona by train or bus, so took a hit and hired a car for the 500km journey through the foothills east. On any other day, I'd feel tortured looking over my left shoulder at the playground of rock that teased me as the miles ticked by. I pictured Tim with his steed and backpack, labouring up the climbs in the heat of the day and for once, I was content with the easier option. The road took me through places I'd heard of years before, and most spectacularly, Parque natural de la Sierra y los Cañones de Guara, reminiscent of the national parks of the USA. It may not have been the plan but it turned out quite well!

Getting to Girona, and having no apparent mobile data (being between jobs and all that) I dropped into the first hotel I could find to borrow their WiFi. It was a 4 star hotel so didn't expect to be able to stay but asked and told them my maximum price. Theirs was higher, but as I started to browse the net, they said being a cycle friendly hotel, they'd match my price et voila! Room found. It did take two hours to find the car rental return but count your wins.

I managed to eat on Friday night, quite a lot as it happens. Take away sushi (no fish) on a park bench, watching Gironians carry on with life. I've been here before, before COVID, and it is much quieter. There is still life but probably like a city out of season rather than in the heights of summer. Masks are mandatory in all public spaces, and on the whole, people adhere to this.

When I returned to my room, Tim had posted his ride: 230km and 3000m climbing at a pace of 28.8km per hour. Strava announced: "This is Tim's longest ride on Strava". The boy done good! He'd be repeating this for at least the next two days, and it should have continued to Malaga, but as things stand, Malaga is looking increasingly unlikely, as I think it will take at least a week until I'm at full strength again and it's a big risk to put myself in a hole with a new job starting in a week. At this point, I'm not sure how Tim views this but he has said stoically "Malaga can wait: good reason to come back!".

Whilst Tim continued to toil away in the mountains, I managed a Saturday pootle to a local climb called Engles. It's no harder than anything on the border of Wales, and although slow, feeling like concrete rather than blood running through my veins, I got round. Progress indeed! Tim spent a total of 13 hours on his route, and I didn't hear from him until I picked up his messages in the morning. He's off again, and I hope if my legs come out to play, I'll meet him halfway through his route to Girona. I've found him a hotel with a pool and look forward to taking the wind for him for a few miles and lead him to his oasis in Girona. Who knows what the next few days hold in store, but Tim has just about crossed the Pyrenees, Spanish side, self-supported as his first adventure. Fabulous!

[elastigirl72]

And so it was, a Greek Oddity

May 13: on the plane to Istanbul

And so it is. Clearwell>Athens. Done!

Not to dwell too much on Athens, but I loved it. What a city. I’ll be spending more time there in future. In fact, maybe the way forward is to fly there, buy a scooter and ride home along the route I’ve just done, taking in more of each place I visited...there’s a thought ☺️

Today, the buckle I’m doing up is my seatbelt and not my rucksack on a plane to Istanbul. I’ll be reflecting on this adventure for some time. It’s the longest by double, and my third unsupported. But sitting here waiting for the plane to lift off, and looking at the flight map, the plane is pointing directly at the route I’ve just travelled. To fly home, I’d cross two time zones, 3 seas, 11 countries and by air, would take 4-5 hours plus time to and from airports, let’s say in all, 9 hours each way. Flying would definitely be easier and quicker. A colleague of mine who has other interests doesn’t get it. Isn’t it obsessive? Boring even? What are you trying to prove? Let’s say you flew to Athens, you wouldn’t see, feel, hear, smell, sense in minuscule detail every metre that passed. You wouldn’t feel the elation of an unexpected mountain vista or the terror of a chasing pack of wild dogs. How could you see the vibrancy in millions of poppies coming into bloom alongside parched, arid fields? What chance would you have of seeing a snake poised to strike and 500 metres later, bright green Geckos just hanging out getting warm?

You wouldn’t have the opportunity of just getting through each day, eating for the miles you’ve either flown through or battled against, or met the people who will either leave a positive impact on your memory or something you’d rather forget. You wouldn’t wake up each morning trying to figure out where you are and what is happening that day, and whether in fact, you can actually stand, let alone move forward. Neither would you find out what you’re made of, both physically and mentally; what happens to the body when you put it under stress day after day? How does the mind deal with pain, stress, the unknown? How does your heart respond to something it’s never done before?

How do I feel today now I’m flying to work in Istanbul? With a day of rest, I could keep going. If I ever found myself in a situation where I’d lost my job or did not need to work anymore, right now, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d be off as soon as I’d packed my gear, and work my way around the globe, probably in a westerly direction, simply because I’ve now done one continent.

Have I learned anything on this trip? I guess that will take me a while to realise. But I’ll start with a few things.

Flexibility really works. It takes the pressure off if that’s what is needed but in order to have flexibility, there needs to be flex room built in. When I originally planned this trip, I’d booked all accommodation from Calais to the Alps. If I’d stuck with that, flexibility would be gone and I would have an unbending, rigid timeline for mileage each day. Going into the trip, I was undertrained, which I was prepared for. What I hadn’t prepared for was how strong the headwinds I would face for the first 10 days. And then the rain and headwinds for an overlapping period which made for 17 days of tough conditions. If I had stuck with the original plan of prebooked stops, I would have struggled with both fitness and motivation more than I already did. In my head, I’d already mentally prepared that snow might be a real showstopper in the Alps, and painful as it was, to take a train from Zurich to Bellinzona (the crossing point was always flexible due to weather conditions and I was annexed whichever way I went), it was a lot easier to accept knowing it was a possibility. The total mileage was more than a direct route to Athens even with one leg train journey and this is how I consoled the decision.

When it’s possible to rigidly plan, then rigidly plan. After losing a day in Venice, after reaching Trieste, the weather, whilst far from perfect, was better. I had only one contingency day, and feeling rested and confident in Trieste, I booked the next 5 nights accommodation down the Dalmatian Coast. That got me to Herceg Novi on schedule to then decide whether I wanted to go mountains or coast to Athens, depending on energy and weather.

From Herceg Novi onwards, I freestyled all the way to Athens, sometimes just pitching up at hotels and asking if they had a room. On balance, there was only one stop that I wouldn’t stop at again, and felt liberated travelling this way.

I still trust too much. Two occasions, I got myself into sticky situations because I look for the best in people. One day I will learn, but with it I will become cynical and suspicious...which doesn’t fill me with happy anticipation. Tricky.

You really don’t need much stuff to get by. By the end of my trip, I had a couple of shampoo sachets, cheap travel toothbrush, toothpaste, sun cream, antihistamine medication, my glasses and contacts, razor, two pairs of knickers, a bra, zip-trouser/shorts, t-shirt, hairbrush and other than the cycle gear I wore, camera and phone, that was it.

I really found it difficult to digest as much food as I needed to eat each day, but paying attention to fuelling the next day’s ride I truly believe this was the key to success. I am sure I have as much of a belly as I had before I left! But i never once ran out of energy. Nuts and dried fruit are a better moving food choice than M&Ms but the latter are just such a guilty pleasure and great for motivation! 😆

The next thing that was affirmed (I knew this already from many other endeavours) is that even if people aren’t physically on the road with you, it’s ok to “shout” for support. I actively did this, and a whole community of helpers materialised. Even when I didn’t actively look for support, it was always there...and love it or hate it, for me, it’s one of the blessings of social media. The reality is that only very close people will be thinking of you occasionally as you pedal along. But those are important, and those that are kind enough to take time to respond and give you a little boost, regardless of how big or small, it’s like a triple espresso when you need it most. I thank every single one, whether avidly following me and with me vicariously, or just the occasional like or comment.

My heart is strong, but so is my head. I’ve never felt so switched on and alive for so long. If you take a 4 week period in life, it’s never going to be a non-stop bed of roses and quadruple rainbows, where the sun always shines, birds always sing and everyone loves each other. Being on this trip has of course highlighted this, but it’s also reminded me again how bloody good cyclists are at literally pedalling on and leaving negative stuff behind them and looking forward. I don’t believe you can be a happy cyclist unless you can do this.

Movement and motion become autonomic when your heart controls movement, so regardless of how tired you are, just mount your bike, look forward and just keep rolling...

I 100% acknowledge how fortunate I am, both in life circumstances and in health to have this incredible opportunity. It’s not for everyone, and it’s not possible for everyone, even if it’s a dream. I’ve no doubt hacked a few people off with my continuous stream of progress, photos and observations. But I hope in equal measure or possibly tipping the scales more towards somehow the positive: that a group of oldies in Canada might visualise and anticipate each post, that a sibling or child can think that they can do this, and along the road, like the two Albanian girls I saw watching in fascination as I regrouped after border control, when I grow up, I’d like to have a go at that. She looks cool and friendly and that looks like a lot of fun. Whatever you do and however you do it, you’ll come across people who will want to shoot you down. I’m glad I’m not wasting my energy worrying about it and doing it anyway.

How do I feel about achieving my goal? It’s hard to answer right now. There are people out in the world doing great and brave things, sometimes because they have to and sometimes because they chose to, like me. My achievement, compared to many others is really insignificant in the scale of the globe and time. And it’s hard for me to ignore that. I guess how I feel is that despite pain, danger, risk, weather, and unexpected behaviour, I’ve not let it stop me, and for that I feel stronger than I thought I was. I am better at being alone than I thought I would be, and probably more obvious to other people than to myself until this journey, I’m pretty stubborn and persistent - not always great qualities! But I feel happy, there is an element of emotion just tinkering away in the background there, and I’m not done yet.

So, what’s next? I had to sell my Time Trial bike to get my head around this trip and focus. It’s clear that I am a distance junkie, whether it’s competing or adventure. I think I have to wait for the dust to settle before I can see that horizon. At 46, whilst I’m no spring chicken, there’s miles in me yet. Just where, when, how, why, who knows?

Things that make me happy on the road:

The first sign for the destination I’m heading for that day

A washing machine

Fabric softener

Hair conditioner

Moisturiser

Bread before started arrives

When Google gives the direction “Stay on this road for 24km”

Good pillows

Home made breakfast, namely my porridge

A friendly welcome

Generosity

A quiet road

A surprise vista

As I do, I have several tracks that have defined this, my most epic two-wheeled adventure to date. Some cheesy, some emotional, but definitely the soundtrack to my transcontinental European two-wheeled road trip....

Moving: SuperGrass

Silver Lining (again): First Aid Kit

Arrival of the Birds: The Cinematic Orchestra

Re:member: Olafur Arnalds

Higher Love: Steve Windwood

Big Log: Robert Plant

Broken Land: The Adventures

No Surprises: Radiohead

Crazy: Seal

Titanium: David Gueta

Hibernate: Celine Cairo

Jingle: Tash Sultana

Last night as I was drifting off to my final Greek land of sleep, I received a call from someone called Nikos. I was reluctant to accept a call from someone I didn’t know, but did anyway...

“Hello, this is Nikos from Hotel *****, why did you give me a bad review?”...[click]

As we land, the plane flight video shows the land below and the shadow of the plane. You can see the contours on the ground but not the details all passing at high speed: pretty much summarises in Technicolour the difference between flying and what my adventure means to the rest of the world, and what my Odyssey meant to me....

Thank you for being with me on this journey. I hope it’s not my last, but if it is, it was an absolute blast 🤩. Enjoy your next adventure!

[elastigirl72]

Day 24 and 25

71km to go

Day 24, 25 and 26: Trikala>Lamia>Thiva

Thiva: 18:43

The sun came out! Three days ago, I gifted my overshoes to Kastoria. Two days, Trikala’s Airbnb owner now has a beautiful pair of threadbare, elasticity long gone Castelli leg warmers, and has no idea of the significance of this gift. This is a cyclist’s version of a striptease...which can also and was performed on the move in the last few days: the jacket, the arm warmers and then a few miles later, the leg warmers.

It was the first morning I left without having consider any layering choices. I felt an awful lot lighter after being charged €8 for two cappuccinos, and I found a bike shop who pumped up my tyres and sent me on my way with a new inner tube after my puncture set bounced off somewhere in the previous day’s ride. Maybe Hades horrors got THAT close. Enjoy, you savages!

Greece has really surprised me, in a multitude of ways. Firstly, it’s people. I know a few Greeks. In fact, Dmitri who is married to Katherine and currently looking after my house and dog, Nyla (how dogs should be) is from Corinthe. He and the other Greek seem lovely. However, here, if I’m totally honest, on the whole, appear to have a serious attitude problem or a chip on their shoulder. You’ll get what you need from them, but blimey, they won’t make it easy! And on the whole, everything they do for you seems to be a massive chore; they tend to look decidedly pissed off! Yet, despite this, I quite like them. It’s like they don’t really give a hoot what anyone else thinks about them. You’ll do things their way or you’ll go without. Is it because of the long and deep Greek tragedies and history that floods its many mountains and plains? I thought that Italians were expressive, which they are. But Greeks don’t want to be expressive but if you push them, you’ll probably see the wrong kind of expressive!

Take for example, the owner of the hotel I’m in right now. The pool is not in use, it’s in the middle of nowhere and whilst it’s clean, so is a travelodge or Premier Inn, but none typically have atmosphere and are extremely functional. Bed, check in, restaurant and bar if you’re lucky. As I rested for the first time by the lovely looking pool on this trip, the owner came over to speak to me declaring his position as if I should congratulate him. And then proceeded to try and get me to cancel my booking.com booking, drive up to the cash point with him in order to pay cash and get a €10 discount for the most expensive and overpriced hotel for the whole 25 days to date. After telling him I’d think it over for while, and the hassle of getting in a car to go to get cash, and concerned that cancelling the booking after the cancellation period had passed with the possibility of double payment and no recourse, I told him it’s not worth it. I’d also be charged a currency fee for the withdrawal (I haven’t mentioned it, but a few days ago, in supposed trusted company, I was set up and pickpocketed. That in itself was genius how it was staged. Luckily they only got away with coins from 8 different countries and my international card. But that has made the cash process a little tricky). Mr owner, who clearly thought very highly of his negotiation skills, stating Booking.com make billions, and me being a seasoned traveller must play the system all the time. Am I missing a trick here? Maybe, but after much insistence after his persistence, he got the message. But this is my experience of Greeks.

Moving to the cycling. I’d been warned by said Greeks that Greek drivers were about the worst you could find. Be careful, I was warned. The roads are very busy and Greeks don’t deal with cyclists at all well. This really set me up to see Greece as a country I needed to get through to get to Athens and the end of my cross-continent adventure. The truth is I have been totally amazed. It has been, day after day, the best cycling I’ve done anywhere in Europe, including Spain and France. Not only are the drivers considerate, stop and wait at intersections for the cyclist to pass, they indicate, pull out, wait, and many toot and wave encouragement. The roads are empty, generally in great condition and all around, the scenery continuously draws you in. The culture is rich, untouched. I saw my first living snake on one road, the same road I saw many geckos between Kastoria and Trikala. The sides of the roads are dressed with millions of poppies, Aloe Vera, cacti, hemp, olive trees. I’m yet to reach Athens but I haven’t once felt unsafe due to traffic. Wild dogs, yes. I’d rather not repeat those.

Both Lamia and Kastoria were gems on an unplanned route. I don’t feel like seeing Thiva as I’m full of hay fever and possibly a cold, so am uninspired. It does have an interesting past though and was an important as a city and in Greek mythology. But I’m very happy here in my apartment away from everywhere: the calm before the storm, returning to relative reality tomorrow.

I don’t know why this area for cyclists seems to be so undiscovered, but I’m so glad I made the decision to come inland. The coast will undoubtedly be much busier than this incredible, mountainous and flat landscape from Albania to Athens. I couldn’t be happier on my bike than I’ve been for the past four days.😊. The balance of vistas for this trip have been perfect: mainland, coast and now mountains. That pretty much covers it! I later hear from Mr Owner as he reluctantly demanded my card payment as he saw me sat on my balcony because he wasn’t there in the morning, that 30 Hungarian cyclists were arriving the next day. For them it’s a short flight away. They’re obviously in on this secret nirvana that is Greece.

The days have rolled by and here I am, one ride away from Athens. I’m still focused, but also excited. 71km till I pack up my bike, having dipped my feet and maybe even swum in the Aegean in the last few miles of my Odyssey...surely that is classed as a transcontinental bike ride? 😃.

Packing away my winter gear, my shorts and t-shirt for the last time, throwing away all the bits and pieces I no longer need, and counting the hours...one more sleep and Athens...

26 days have past

24 days of cycling (excluding the abandoned day after 10 miles)

11 countries

6 currencies

3414km recorded cycling (2133 miles)

27,345m ascent (climbing)

1 backpack and frame bag - weight 4kg

I train ride (not included in mileage) to avoid snow

Two ferries - English Channel and 500m at Montenegro

Crossed the Severn, English Channel, past the Mediterranean And Adriatic Seas...

Days in order of awesomeness:

1 Librazhd>Kastoria

2 Lamia>Thiva

3 Trikala>Lamia

4 Senj>Zadar

5 Shkoder>Librazhd

The four least enjoyable:

1 Como>Garda - weather and traffic

2 Bellinzona>Como - weather and traffic

3 Venice>Trieste - weather

4 Neum>Herceg Novi - traffic

Favourite people by country:

Albanian

Bosnian

Montenegrin

Croatian

Italian

English

French

Greek

Swiss

Best hospitality: Albania then Bosnia

Best meal: Albania then Greece

Best weather: Greece

Biggest surprise country: equal Albania and Greece

Favourite city: Split

Best hotel: Calais and Albania

Least favourite city: Saint Quentin

Hardest day: Venice - abandoning for the day and the following day prospect of another abandoned day

Favourite person: the elderly cafe owner in Albania

Best vista: over Lake Ohrie, Albania

12 May: 0656 - Thiva

The day has arrived, and still, with only 71km to go, I’m not 100% certain I’ll make it to Athens! I guess I will believe it and relax once I walk into the hotel, and ask for my bike box. Having received an overweight charge relating to my box apparently weighing 67kg heavier than the maximum for my shipping cost (which is 27kg and having weighed it before booking, know it’s actually 19kg), I am expecting to find an adult size stowaway inside. So the very first thing I will be doing on receipt is asking a member of staff to hold my phone and video me opening it as evidence to send to UPS, who will otherwise pursue an additional £146 shipping cost. I tell you this as I don’t want you to fall into the same cunning trap.

A fellow cyclist, Steve, currently pedalling through France, shared this lovely insight with me after I’d shared the view of the Aegean Sea af Lamia’s castle. Around 10k from me, I could have by rights, pedalled over, dipped my toe in the water and got aboard the nearest train to Athens. But didn’t! Steve shared this: In Xenophon’s Anabasis when the 10,000 Greek soldiers saw the Mediterranean after there march out of Persia they shouted for joy Thálatta! Thálatta! The sea The Sea! They knew they were home.

I haven’t got that excited yet, but I’ve placed my Sainsbury’s order...Istanbul tomorrow...by plane 😊

The bells have chimed outside, I’ve eaten two cereal bars, a banana and half a pint of milk for breakfast and I will be hauling my knackered, ageing body on to the bike just one more time here, for up to 3 hours...and then it’s done...hopefully! See you in Athens 😃

[elastigirl72]

Day 23: Kastoria>Trikala

I will hit 2,000 mile marker today. 🎊

Stevie Windwood was bringing me a higher love on a country road yesterday when for the third consecutive day, Hades little helpers, the now Greek dogs from hell, four of them this time, lay in waiting at the beginning of a climb. My side of the road. I saw one at first, about the size of a Labrador, mongrel, and hell-sent to deliver me to the God of the underworld. In a heartbeat, 3 more of the feckers had joined him and kept pace with me as they drew ever closer, forcing me on to the other side of the road. I was now wheel to neck with this barking mad satanic monster and his mates were now behind him. It looked like I would collide in milliseconds, and I’d be providing this pack of let’s face it, ****, with possibly their first meal in days. And then it came:

“RRROOOOAAAARRRRGGGHHHHHHH” From the pit of my stomach and resonating on the mountains, my war cry, it’s ferocity like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. But it worked. As it surfaced, I also angled my front wheel towards the pack leader and bore down towards him like I was Zeus himself. “You think you’re going to bring my Odyssey to an end right here, in the Greek foothills when I’ve cycled through rain, hail, force 10 gales, wrestled with cars and lorries, nearly been taken capture?” No way, man! It worked. I kept the power down and they backed off. I could literally feel the adrenaline take hold of my legs, as the impact of my war cry hit my throat. Writing this next morning, it’s still sore. Continuing after my dice with death to my tune, it appears Stevie did bring me a higher love 😆.

Survival aside, there were only so many of these dog ambushes I could take. Three in three days seems a little excessive. I’d been chatting to a rounded retired German man at breakfast that morning, who in his day, had ridden 5 times to the island of Lesbos by bike, and was now returning with his wife for a month. We talked about dogs, and he saw my dilemma, mentioning about a friend of his who still tours, and carries a 500g stick to fend them off. We both immediately understood. 500g??? Was it worth it? 😂

As the miles ticked by, and I felt my fatigue like an extra 5kg in my backpack, i observed that the route was again stunning, now rolling foothills with snowy mountain peaks on the horizon in whichever direction you looked. There was no one around and no traffic, the route being the old National Road 15, unused since the completion of a motorway. It was easy to imagine the Greeks working the land as if today was still Ancient Greece, and I passed many archaeological sites. It was peaceful and perfect, from beginning to end, even if the sun didn’t shine all day. I only stopped for one photo, as stopping meant it was really hard to get going again. Even getting close to Trikala, my day’s bed, I passed an amazing site, Meteora, which reminded me of Garden of the Gods in Colorado. If the sky had been blue I would have stopped. It is as though a meteor had landed from out of space and it’s rock, impenetrable. But cycling through it’s touristy town, I was reminded that whilst I’d been a little risky in leaving for Greece when I did and I’d been unlucky with the weather do at least two weeks, I would still choose now to go rather than later as so much of my journey would have been full of congestion and inconsiderate drivers. So, I take the penalty of the weather over the tourist season, every time.

Fortunately, after a pretty hefty, hilly 60 miles, the ride got flatter, finishing with a quiet dual carriageway into what is a beautiful town called Trikala. For me, again, it was just a place to stop on my route. Having plotted so many variations from Albania to Athens, I seemed to know every town on every sign. Yep, could have stopped there, there, there...but the most exciting sign of the day was Athina. No distance mentioned, just I was going the right way and in touching distance. By the time I’d reach Trikala, I’d have only 318km to go. Friday would mark 2,000 miles and around 25,000m climbing completed. The countdown was well under way.

I love Trikala. It’s bustly, young, vibrant and doesn’t feel touristy, although it has a monastery which is apparently a must if you’re visiting. Why is it every place I go, it is the religious buildings that must be seen?

After buying some groceries and hanging out in the town square for a while people watching, I retired early to my Airbnb, a basement bolthole, quiet, solid, private, and fell into a deep coma shortly after 8...

...Friday, my cycling days don’t get bigger than 130km now, it’s literally downhill from here to Athens 😊. The birds are tweeting and the sun I think is up (although I can’t be sure as I have high walls all around my basement garden. My legs are screaming at me for this to be over, but still my heart is stronger. 3 days, two nights...318km...and there’s me thinking I have nothing to say this morning 🙄. With the miles deceasing, I consider that perhaps today, I visit the shop I saw whilst drinking my smoothie and buy a bikini for my half day tomorrow...I have room for it now I’ve ditched the overshoes...the leg warmers remain. And are still used. Maybe today...

[elastigirl72]

Day 22: Librazhd>Kastoria (Greece)

Greece: 473km to go, 3 nights, 4 days riding

Kastoria: 06:19am

Yesterday to me was emotional. During the ride, I likened it to an astronaut looking back at the earth for the first time from space or landing on the moon. THAT emotional. The last Albanian miles rolled by, and as Eva Cassidy sang my favourite version of “Over the rainbow”, I decided that Yip Harburg who composed it, in fact was a cyclist, who also discovered this part of the world.

When I set off from home on 17 April, I had a loose plan as to where I might cross the Alps and that I definitely wanted to see Venice if the mountain crossing took me in that direction, and the Dalmatian Coastline, and that I needed to finish in Athens. Although I plotted and downloaded a set of routes all the way to Athens, in the end, I didn’t use any on my Garmin, relying only on Google Maps when required. So research for the route largely took place every evening for the next day. Crossing Albania filled me with nervous anticipation, as most people who knew I was going seemed also to feel, but whether I went coastal or mountain, it was difficult to avoid. My biggest fears about Albania were being a single female, dogs, and some historical record of it not being a safe country for tourists. I’ve had questions in a touring bike group about the people and country, and Albania has a reputation that is far reaching, global, in fact.

On reflection, my summary of Albania is this. In 1991, I rode blindly into northern Spain, a novice cyclist, tourist, alone, female, and with no technology. I got into trouble on my first day that could have ended very badly. On my second day, and many subsequent days, I had many heightened experiences, but on balance, I mostly experienced incredible kindness from strangers. The mountains felt untouched, and young female touring cyclists back then were as common as rocking horse poo. ETA were very active, and I was in an area where if something went wrong, communication with home or anyone would be difficult, and let’s face it, my parents didn’t know where I was - nor did anyone I knew. So, when you then consider Albania or similar countries today, how can this be any more challenging than a country such as Spain in 1991? As it happens, and unbeknown to me until I reviewed my route on Strava, I covered some of the Trans Continental Race route of 2018. If big events such as these are going through countries such as Albania, then I think it’s ok. Different, challenging, undiscovered, will definitely get you looking at the world and your part in it from another perspective, but that has to be a good thing. I fell in love with Albania and Albanians. I have high hopes that in years to come, it will have a reputation such as Italy or Greece. Fortune favours the bold. It’s waiting. Maybe it’s the new type of cyclist that can revive the crumbing restaurants and hotels along the SH3...I’m just glad I got there early. My view? Here is a country that is proud, wants to please and has a beautiful culture. Thank you, Albania.

Coming back to Earth for a moment or two, and having no clue what lay on the road ahead yesterday (as to repeat, I’d not planned this route before leaving so only knew it would be hilly), within 5km of leaving my hotel, I came across, ah yes, the old “Dog Ambush” again. Wise to my normally beloved 4-legged friends and their dead dog routine, I spotted them again, the triad, two watching, one playing dead as I started the first climb of the day. Being fresh from food a rest possibly saved my life, as this little pack of bastardos were like a hit squad. As they chased me at full pelt and into the middle of the road, I confess to hoping that some truck would come up behind and squash all three. As it was, my Usain Bolt effort won my escape, and for the whole day, this was my highest heart rate and is clearly visible on my chart 😆

The gods were on my side on this day to top all cycling days. As I rode through my first mountain town of Prennjas, I received so much roadside encouragement, I felt I was doing a stage of Le Tour. I hit my biggest climb of the day shortly after, and crossing this, was presented by a view that left me dumbfounded. This is what happens when you don’t do any research. I knew there was a lake near Pogradec, but lakes can be anything: sometimes they’re just a reservoir and this is all I expected. What I got was Ohrid Lake, one of Europe’s deepest and oldest lakes, framed by National Park Galichica, North Macedonia and it’s snow-capped mountains. Roadside traders became lakeside fishermen and Pogradec, whilst still chaotic, felt smaller, charming, warm. For the first time, I stopped to pick up a picnic lunch from a lovely weather-beaten old man, of succulent cherries and a packet of crisps, devoured without ceremony after my next climb. The roads were pristine and quiet, and all around, in the mountain’s alluvial plain, cycling or horse and cart driven farmers, working the fields by hand. A little further down the road, I also made my first stop for coffee, and was equally charmed by the elderly owner and his family. He enjoyed guessing my nationality, and in Albanian, guessed Italian (this was normal), German, but was delighted when I told him I was English; perhaps I was the first English cyclist to stop there! He got the rest of my Albanian Lek as I left for a tip and we parted with a jovial “High 5!” 😆. All Albanians that I met that could speak English also told me they had a close relative working in the U.K. This supports the fact that there are more Albanians living outside of Albania than there are in Albania.

Leaving that coffee stop and heading towards Greece, my emotions couldn’t have been more heightened. Crossing the border into my final country on this trip, I felt like I’d suddenly been teleported to Canada, and in particular, Route 99, heading towards Mt Currie. I saw no cars at all, an eagle, the crickets tune louder than my squeaking chain, and alarmingly, warning signs for bears and wolves! I just wasn’t expecting that in deepest Europe! I didn’t slow down or stop, and prayed with 100 miles in my legs that I didn’t bonk before arriving in Kastoria.

I made it, as if I’d done only 70 miles. I’d crossed a time zone but had been completely oblivious to time all day. My accommodation, a small guest house, had a balcony that overlooked Kastoria’s stunning lake, where there were rowers, pelicans, and as I lie here writing, countless other fauna I have no clue what they are, but the chorus is delightful. The town has many derelict buildings, but here, it only adds to the charm. It seems there are only locals here, and no tourism. Another complete surprise: Kastoria. A cyclist’s nirvana.

Maybe I am a drama queen, did have self-realisation and maybe I have had equally incredible days on a bike, but if I have, I’m struggling to recall a point in time when it all came together in one ride as it did yesterday.

So today...473km remain, 3 nights, 4 days riding remain between here and Athens. My quads are like concrete, my knee a little sore, but holding up, and when completed, this week is the toughest cycling week I will ever have completed. Multiply that with the just short of 3 weeks leading to today, these last few days are going to hurt. My chain is squawking and pretty much dead, but my heart is louder and stronger. I might even ditch the leg warmers and overshoes today...steady on 😃...

[elastigirl72]

Day 21: Shkoder>Lizbahd

620km to go...I’m finally in the mountains!

7 May: Shkoder 07:27am

Given I am a certified and ex practicing sports and rehab massage therapist who still actively promotes stretching and regular massage for active people, lying in my €35 spa having the massage of my life, I was alarmed to fail to recall without some effort my last similar session. It was well over a year ago. Also apparent was my failure on good, regular stretching. I’d been on a cycling yoga week last year, trying to will myself into better self-care with the lovely Sinead, cycling yoga star in Ireland. I am proud to have kept a few of hers, which should only be done in the confines of privacy as they could be taken as some sort of lap dance in the wrong setting. I have my own MASH stretch which I have to say is pretty damn awesome 😊. This young lady, who combined this job with school was one of the best therapists I’ve stumbled across, including myofascial release as part of her treatment. Weirdly, even knowing I was a cyclist, time ran out before she got to my quads. I paid her extra and she spent a good 15 minutes on each, each stroke reminding me how much abuse my legs had taken, largely over the last few weeks. I didn’t train hard for my adventure, and this was by design. Looking at my training log, you could be forgiven in thinking that I might have retired completely from cycling in November, only seeing an ember burning almost undetectable in January. Then, one dark, wet, typical Forest Saturday morning, making Kalamata olive ciabatta toast, I wondered “Where exactly is Kalamata?”. About an hour later, I not only knew where, I’d booked a return flight, and figured out a 2,200 mile route there in April, how long I’d ride each day, and about 1000 permutations of getting there. This was it. It was set. Only it wasn’t. Work threw in the possibility of a work event a day after I was due to fly back...and 3 days before setting off, it was confirmed as Istanbul.

Flying home from Kalamata on 11 May and back to Istanbul a day later would have meant a minimum of 16 hours travel doors to doors. The options I considered were to fly home, cycle to Istanbul, charter a yacht (yes, seriously, I did look into this!), get a bus from Athens to Istanbul (no pre-booking possible for the bike). After much deliberation, cogitation and planning, Athens won, with my bike case and work clothes being shipped to a hotel I booked on hotel rewords points. It seemed fitting too, as I’d never made it to the Athens Olympics as an athlete, but I got close, and next to qualifying, this trip is the biggest sporting conquest I’d attempted. It would be great to finish my ride at the Acropolis, but let’s see...thinking about how close I got to being an Olympian still is a bittersweet memory. Less than two minutes, a toilet stop in fact, and just a little bit faster and I’d have been there. But what I take from trying is that even though I ran my first marathon when I was 18, and didn’t think I was any good at running (this left it in the past until the months after my mum died in 1998, and from that event and to this day, sport has been my Lynch pin in coping with and celebrating life’s rollercoaster), I qualified as a mum o two young children, who to this day, probably still don’t see what hard work went in, and may well believe if you dream it, you can do it. It’s not a bad philosophy to have! That and blessed with good genes 😊.

And yet all so laughable! Here I sit, waiting for breakfast, the barista chuckling at my need for a third cappuccino (they’re tiny really, but delicious, and I giggle too, explaining I’m very tired 😆). I need it, it’s a big day today.

I’ve decided to cycle into the mountains, towards Pogradec, a village or town by a mountain lake. To check the route, I’ve planted in Athens a billion times and plotted by car (avoiding motorways, ferries and tolls) and by foot, put a pin in what looks like a country lane or a busy road to check the road conditions, and loosely made a plan: get past Tirana and head South East. It looks like I’ll spend another two nights before hitting Greece. Dare I say it, but the weather forecast and maps look fairly decent, but for now, the gear stays stuck on my back...

May 9: Librazhd - 05:19

Well, so much to digest from the last 40 or so hours in Albania. There’s still around 120km here to cover, and if my bike and body survive, we will make Greece today and my bed in Kastoria in around 100 miles...another big day - in the mountains.

In just 120 miles in this country, I have seen so much. The good, the bad, and yes, the ugly. Hearing that this is one country my pioneering explorer dad has not visited (I think this is a lifetime first between his coverage of the globe and mine) because its borders were closed when he ran is Overlander business, and learning from a Roman Empire history documentation that whilst the Roman Empire ruled all of the Mediterranean, except Albania, leads me to believe this country has an incredible past, and I need to investigate.

I learnt that Albanians have an industry built on roadside trade, most notably, car washes, petrol stations and attached to every petrol station, a hotel. Most of the people visible in daylight appear to be men; I barely saw a woman, either in the villages or city, and as a woman, this felt quite overwhelming, for no other reason than the imbalance. It meant that whilst the multitude of coffee shops were on offer, I didn’t want to stop. Already looking like an alien dropped from space, putting myself directly amongst gangs of rugged men who seemed to have nowhere to go and nothing to do was too much. That’s just me! But cycling past the many who stood at the side of the road and had stopped doing whatever they were doing, if in fact they were doing anything at all, they stood frozen, eyes and mouth agape. In no other country have I passed through have I had so many positive shouts and I guess, encouraging comments (for all I know they could have been shouting “loser!”). The contrast between those that have and have not was huge.

The road surfaces were very curious. In most places I’d visited, as you entered a town or city, the roads in Europe would be pothole free and markings better than the surrounding country roads. But in Albania, any town or city, the roads dissolved. A network of potholes you could disappear into and a patchwork of concrete “plasters”, and for no apparent reason, countless and pointless road jumps, unmarked, without any warning, which all cars, bling or ancient, rolled over so slowly, as if dampners and suspension were extinct and they had to maintain what they had.

Tirana, Albania’s capital, brought all my observations to a massive climax. Any Highway Code had not been introduced, and for a long time I decided they needed traffic lights at the very least (they did eventually appear). I saw the most insane driving I’ve ever seen in my life, making the film Ronin look like a police training video on how to drive safely around a city. At no other point during this trip had I felt as petrified for my safety as here. Checking my options at the worst point, I stopped at an intersection where coaches pulled up and double parked, a large verge, covered in mud, waste and men, sitting between and on it, police standing close, travellers trying to wheel suitcases over uneven verges, and me needing to make a decision on how the hell to get it out with my life. Google suggested what looked like the motorway, which started at this same junction. I confirmed with the police standing close by and they confirmed I could ride my bike on this road, and stopped the traffic to let me go. It was Russian roulette, but as soon as I hit the ring road’s massive hard shoulder, I felt my life had been saved and escape was nigh.

7km later, and I had reached the mountain road, SH3, the old Elbasan Road, replaced by the recently completed A3 that ran parallel. Order restored, the road started to climb. Given this was recently a major thoroughfare to the mountains, I wondered what would happen to the many restaurants and hotels that flowed with the road, through villages up towards the sky. It was quite haunting, and the stray dogs began to reveal themselves again. Children waved and one even raced me up a section, whilst another shouted “Hallo! Have an enjoyable day!” The climb was amazing, good road, and it felt like I owned it. I saw three cyclists in all, all heavily laden with panniers. I past cheerily one octogenarian going up and two coming the other way going down. It’s easy to see why they built a tunnel to take cars through the mountain, but it was their loss and my gain.

Here, in the land where I have seen more people walking their cow than their dogs, who in turn, run free , civic pride does not exist for what I have seen of Albania so far. It contrasts the most breathtaking landscapes, and shows diversity to the rest of Europe, yet fly-tipping is common, expected even, and mounds of wrecked cars are all to frequent. There are many ruined buildings and near Lehze, I passed what can only be described as a ghost town and factory, which was really sinister. Is this down to a poor state and government? Clearly there are people here who have wealth but the overriding feeling is this country is poor. It wants to be western but can’t quite bridge the gap. I feel very keen to explore its history.

Approaching the top of the mountain, which seemed like the top of the world, I happened upon the most cunning canine skullduggery I’ve ever witnessed. The mountaintop restaurant invited guests to it for 6km, and it was a real possibility that I might drop in. But as it appeared, there appeared to be a dead dog lying in the road directly in front of it, with two more dogs lying in wait to the side. Feeling both sad, but also danger, I pedalled slowly and quietly, not wanting to alarm the dogs to my side, and hoping to pass the dead dog without seeing too much gore. Then, just as I ran parallel, BOOM! he was up, his mates joining him in charging for me, up the remaining mountain! Luckily, I’d anticipated this ambush, and put down the biggest power of my life, as if being chased by a bear. I escaped, but my god! How brilliant of these stray masters of terror? Please, no more like this!

The climb was the day’s highlight, and telling myself that whatever hotel arrived at 100 miles, that’s where I was staying. As if my magic, a petrol station and a Swiss chalet looking hotel.

There’s not much to say about this place, except a stark contrast from the same priced oasis I had stayed at near Shkoder. Here, the food was bland and sparse, and the staff didn’t care as much as my last hotel. At Launi-A, seeing how much food I had put away the night before, at breakfast, they just kept bringing basket after basket of food! That hotel and its staff will keep me going for many years to come as the nicest surprise, and a great introduction to Albania.

And now, breakfast. A lovely Albanian who speaks good English and has lit the fire me and I have amazing coffee. It will be a good day! Ξεκίνα 😃 Even here, this far south, there’s snow on the mountains ahead! Titanium by David Gueta and Sia playing on the empty restaurant speakers...bring on the day 🌈

[elastigirl72]

Day 20: Herceg Novi>south of Shkoder, Albania

Mountains or coast?

Sometimes and without planning, things just seem to fall into line. I reconnected with my younger brother, Alex, 19 months younger than I, and #4 of 4 siblings born within 5 years to two crazy, outlandish parents. That reconnection in itself is a long story and I won’t go into now. But i regularly work in Norway and by chance, in Alex’s home town where he lives with his wife, Monika and two girls, Emma and Susi. Life and families are complicated but, stars aligned and 25 years or more have passed, and the next time I’m there. I’ll stay and be Auntie Michelle to nieces I love.

Also by chance, the last time I visited, I mentioned to Alex about my planned trip, and where I was heading. He looked at the route and said “I have a friend who has an apartment there. Let me call him”. So he did. It just so happened that Per was happy for me to stop by if it worked in with my plans, even if he wasn’t there. As if by magic, I came through, and it coincided with a rest day. I was met by Lidija, who having checked with me a few days earlier, met me with freshly caught fish, and a potato salad, a bottle of wine of choice (red or white. Or both!), bananas, strawberries picked from her friend’s garden that morning, and a barrel full of conversation. After 3 cups of tea, she left me to indulge in the shower, with shampoo, hair conditioner, body cream, moisturiser, radiators, chocolates a washing machine and a view if it became visible across the whole of Herceg Novi. I have never met Per, and only just met Lidija, who I believed lived in the same road, but in fact had caught a taxi from a nearby village, just to make me feel welcome. I am now so fed and rested, if I don’t do a big week, I’ll go home heavier than when I set off!

This was the shelter in a storm, quite literally. And couldn’t have happened at a better time, at any point during the 3.5 week expedition. How do you show gratitude for such generosity? If I wasn’t already in heaven, to top it off, Lidija returned the next day with home made lunch, and took me on a walking tour of her home town. An amazing woman who is a Tony Robins coach. I am apparently a sun person, and she a moon. I need 20 minutes of sun a day and she needs to sleep. She knew everyone in the town as we walked around. I fell in love with Herceg very quickly.

As the storm passed over during the early hours of the day, I noticed a figure on a rock outcrop, and was sure the silhouetted figure was fishing. Walking along the promenade, I learnt the figure was a statue of a haunting and beautiful woman, a memorial to a lady who was betrothed to a sailor, who went to sea and never returned. For the rest of her days, the lady returned to wait for her love to sail back to shore, and did so until she died. Truly moving and befitting of such a small sanctuary in deepest Europe where most people won’t visit or have heard of.

Every trip I’ve done, I’ve come across incredible, memorable people who have stayed with me since. Mario (Italy 2015), Jonathan and Pete (Canada 2016 and 2018). Sadly, from my first ever trip, in 1991, I met equally kind people who are written in a diary, but long since past. It’s these moments that erase the challenge days and sow a seed deep inside. I hope that I can in turn be so generous and kind.

6th May is a big day, and start to the biggest week, both mileage and climbing but also uncharted waters. I’m a little anxious but at least slightly recovered...if something is going to go wrong, it will be in this next week. So near, yet so far...mountains or coast? Start days early and ride as far as possible?

6 May: Shkoder 1430

After the mountains lit up in a fury of lightening bolts and torrential rain, I felt confident that setting my alarm for 5am was a good decision. Early miles were the plan, and at 7am, although there were still torrents running across the roads, the bay was calm, and I was on my way.

One day’s full rest was telling from the first rotation. I felt great! I was prepared for the intermittent downpours with my new bin bag and trusted shower caps, and knew, come hell or high water, I was crossing into what in my head felt like another continent today but was in fact, just another country, and my 10th on the list: Albania.

You can get to Albania by bike several ways from Montenegro: outright ferry, around a huge bay and up Kotor or a €1 ferry crossing, which takes 10 minutes and provides a panoramic view of the black mountains. I opted for the latter, and sailed my way through towns and up climbs, barely noticing the gentle early headwind, almost a pre-requisite to a ride now. The traffic was less, although I did see an elderly pedestrian spontaneously leap in front of a speeding knackered old VW Mark I Golf...how he wasn’t killed! If it wasn’t suicidal pedestrians, it was motorists pulling out of side roads or shop fronts, almost teasingly to see what a cyclist with right of way might actually do: stop or ride straight into the now stationery vehicle blocking the carriageway because in fact they can’t pull out on to the opposite carriageway anyway. I counted at least 20 stray dogs between Herceg and the border, and now have come to expect them at every turn in the road. I will need to plan my defence strategy as I believe at some point, a dog and I are going to get better acquainted, probably as I find my steepest climb, am tired and can’t escape 😃. I am considering tying a stick to my bike and working out my war cry as I write.

Maybe it’s because I am recharged or maybe it is because even with impending doom looking down on me from the heavens, the green clad mountains that now surrounded me made for yes I know I’ve said it before, an epic day’s cycling. The bin bag and shower cap yo-yo’d in and out of my bag, gaining me much attention in the rural Montenegro countryside as I rode through as the joker on wheels. Here, the people, buildings and cars all changed, decrepit, off the beaten track, and oblivious to style, just functional living: the need for a car, a roof and clothing rang through and any signs of wealth disappeared as I approached the Albanian border. Soaked, I noted that I’d never seen such dark and threatening sky over any mountains. I wondered if the swallows that darted around the road indicated anything, but it was memorable and beautiful.

I’d already fallen in love with the day before I reached Albania, and despite twanging my bad knee before the climb between countries, was prepared to ride on as long as I felt as I did. 😀

And suddenly, surprisingly, Albania! (And another passport stamp 🎊)

Where the tarmac is smooth, the ageing locals ride bikes, the area feels untouched by time or tourism, and the surrounding countryside is jaw-droppingly Jurassic. In 10km I rode past two mosques, minute and not what I expected. Every last morsel of flesh was covered so being a heavily Muslim country, I felt I was being respectful. Motorists gave way, and many people, young and old, even waved, or honked positively. I even got a “go, go, go” from one driver! I wanted to stop and take so many photos, but the ever threatening sky bore down on me and reminded me to keep pedalling.

I barely noticed the city of Shkoder; I was through it so quickly. The driving here made me laugh, as it was chaotic. My lasting memory will be of a very large old lady in her local dress, headscarf and woollen tights, pinned with her bottom just on the edge of the scooter seat, driven by her husband, bouncing off down the road in front of me. I wish I’d got a photo of that, or the old guys on scooters, smartly dressed, but weathered and worn.

Not long after leaving the city limits, I saw lightening ahead and a distant rumble of thunder. It was only 16 miles till my planned stop, and another 56 to Tirana, my stretch goal. I was feeling great. But checking these details and considering my options, I’d stopped right outside a brand new looking spa hotel. I went inside, enquired, and found the room, full spa access, and breakfast would cost €35. I repeat €35! And the possibility of booking a massage. Even with this information, I had to sit down, digest and consider my options: the weather radar, my knee, how good I was feeling...

The weather is looking better from tomorrow, so why push on? I am lying down in my €35 room, snuggled in a huge dressing gown having had a luxury shower and awaiting my massage. I am hoping very much my knee twang isn’t terminal but it doesn’t feel good. But if my journey ends here, I am truly happy. I love Albania, even if I’ve not spent a night here yet. I couldn’t feel more welcome. I hope you can make it too someday...till tomorrow...and decision time; mountains or coast? 🤔

[elastigirl72]

Day 18: Neum, Montenegro

918km to Athens (or less)

Herceg Novi: 9:13am

Looking back at the 18 days that have passed, My routine has been to be on my bike as early as 8am and as late as 10:30, dependent on whether breakfast was prepared for me, the comfort of my bed, whether the endorphins had kicked my fatigue into the long grass and my obsessive analysis of the meteorological radar. Of all my days, today is the first day I have planned not to get on my bike, albeit a decision made around 60 miles into yesterday’s ride from hell; this is not an accusation about the place I rode from (Neum, Bosnia) or where I finished (Herceg Novi, Montenegro), but of the passage of time that passed between both safe havens. It could have been beautiful, no doubt it was. But God had other plans for me, and like Groundhog Day and a complete repetition of last Sunday’s escape from Venice, I left seeing peepholes towards blue in the foreboding clouds to not knowing whether I was riding in the bay or a flooded causeway just over the next border, back into Croatia (noting that whilst I knew that access to the sea had been granted to Bosnia in the breakup of Yugoslavia, was surprised that the total distance is only around 16km). In total, I crossed three border control points in a space of 20km, and 4 in 126km. To the left, I believe there were mountains, though it was not entirely obvious, and to the right and ahead, what can only be described as a landscape of doom, a Norwegian Fjord in winter; dark, monstrous, unforgiving.

I barely noticed the climbs, except to say that there was a recurring theme for the day, a magnification of the previous day’s ride from Split: climb, peak at the highest point over the sea, round the corner and thwack, straight into wall of wind. No reward on the descents, just trying to hold deep rim wheels firmly in the same direction as my frame and body. It was the first day on any stretch of road that a few coaches gave me a break and didn’t rev their engines to pass quickly and as close as possible. About half actually waited until my pace on the next ascent slowed to that of a child on a trike. By the time I reached the outskirts of Dubrovnik, I’d felt like I had finished the longest boxing match in history, floored 15 times, got up each time to take another beating.

I had considered stopping in Dubrovnik for lunch and a bike shop check-in. My chain needed more oil and was running dry and squeaking. There is a beautiful viaduct that leads to the city’s bypass, up a long, panoramic climb. The option was there, but sheer rain, now unforgiving motorists and my increasing anger at the lack of sense from passing drivers led me straight over the city, down a rainswept descent and into the first petrol station for an emergency vending machine hot chocolate, resembling cleaned bike water, the obligatory M&Ms and my first Red Bull of my trip. Red Bull. It’s been there at every stop I’ve ever made. Why had I only considered it now on my shortest of planned days?

I looked at my Garmin for the first time. 40km remaining. I celebrated internally as a Croatian, noting my bike, tried to start a conversation with me. Me, apologetically: “English!” Him: shrug shoulders, goes to pay, looks at bike again and tried again. Nothing, not even hand signals could get us through but his admiring glance (at the bike, not me) said it all. Respect 😊.

The day got worse as I swung my leg over my steed and started up the next climb towards the city’s airport. Every driver was in a hurry. As they impatiently and irrationally honked their horns, it was apparent that their belief was this was their road and if there was a place for cyclists, or whatever we were, it was either under their wheels or in the bushes. One coach went past me so close and so fast, if I hadn’t been prepared for what was the communal crappiest driving I’ve ever experienced, I’d have been sucked under it’s wheels and none of the passengers or possibly driver would have been any wiser. Here, there appeared to be a complete disregard for life. I was to them, their next roadkill, no different to the otter, snakes or birds I’d seen all through this landscape. I swore more than once in this final 40km. Loudly and unashamedly. I also considered writing to all the countries’ governments to advise them that if they wanted to encourage cycle tourism or even promote better health, adopting the Spanish and French approach to cyclists could work for them. How Eurovelo routes can work here is a mystery if no one tells its motor brigade how to ride around a cyclist. To say I saw red in my rotten, smelly, soaked final miles is an understatement.

The highlight of the day (my passport being stamped at Montenegro for the first time!) was the soon quashed by the queuing traffic approaching Herceg Novi. Roadworks, but not in a way we know it in the U.K.. Here, a mile long stretch of unsurfaced road, both sides, a traffic control system that had motorists waiting 15 minutes between light changes. And for me, no way round. The only positive perspective on this otherwise shite day was that I jumped the queuing motorists both at the border (one of whom nearly reversed into me in a border queue - he got the “Stare of Death” and some hand gestures which were not waves), passing at least 100, who had previously tried to run me off the road, jumped the red light and pedalled on to my awaiting sanctuary, the wrong way down a one way street and into the arms of Lidija, my angel in waiting. It ended my slowest and most stressful day on the trip, making the decision to have the next day off an easy one. This was my gift horse for the adventure. Why hurry away? If my bike still worked after such a shockingly painful interlude, the next time I’d be mounting it, I’d be heading for Outlaw Country. Time to replenish, refocus, recalibrate, recharge, repeat, then repeat.

I need to tell you about the kindness of strangers, but as I’m still experiencing that, and still in bed, that will have to wait. But right now, in this ridiculous voyage I’ve sent myself on, fulfilling some weird lifelong ambition to cross a continent (I could have done it in so many ways but chose this, in fact, on reflection, I have done it! East to West back to East USA with a backpack...doh 🙄), I’m still in bed and contemplating whether I go outside in my flip flops to explore, getting cold and wet - again 🤔

Till tomorrow and Albania...

[elastigirl72]

Day 16-17: Zadar>Split, Split>Neum (Bosnia)

1485 miles completed - around 700 to go

For the first time on this trip, the last 48 hours I recall in a slight blur. Not because I’ve been enjoying the local beer, but more possibly because I am now reaching zombie state. I know I rode my bike on Thursday, but it’s taken me some time to remember the details. But after a rude size bucket of porridge, made with a smidgen of incorrectly purchased “kefar” (fermented milk which in the U.K. we would normally throw away as disgusting and indigestible) and a black tea with a pillaged sugar, it’s coming back to me...in all it’s technicolour glory and equal horror.

Being 1kg lighter leaving Zadar (I was eaten alive by a zingy mosquito that taunted me through the night and like Dracula, also found my jugular), I mounted my bike rather wearily, but happy for the first ride this trip, the leg and arm warmers, base layer, rain jacket and overshoes were all neatly crammed into my backpack. Wall to wall sun accompanied me on what was the best conditions of my adventure so far. Yes, a little headwind but it’s a small price to pay. The landscape was changing again to a more rolling terrain, where for some time the sea wasn’t visible. I looked ahead at mountains rather than rode beside them, a timely reminder of what lay ahead in the days to come. I was broken. My back, knee, left leg screamed at me early, and I made my first emergency coffee stop at only 30 miles on the clock. It was going to be a tough day. No matter how incredible a ride looks, when you’re tired, you may as well be sat on the turbo watching Jeremy Kyle. Ok, it was better than that. But it wasn’t easy. I resigned myself to slow and steady wins the race.

Split was one of my highlights, and this alone was motivation to keep moving. What lay ahead was a once in a lifetime experience.

I had booked an apartment which has a 9.5/10 review. Great comments about the host and the location. I chose well, I thought. Mario met me, and irradiated warmth and kindness. He’d had surgery on his skull, very visible with no hair to hide it, and I later learned he’d been a chef, and 9 years earlier, at the age of 22, he’d worked, drunk, then had a car crash which left him without the possibility of working. So now, he rented out his own flat to make money and when guests stayed, he lived with his parents 1 hour away. He couldn’t drive, and this commerce opportunity seemed hard to visualise as something sustainable, but this was his third season.

Mario was clearly impressed I’d turned up on a bike. So enthusiastic, in fact, he offered 1. A massage, 2. To be my guide for the night. I declined his first invitation immediately and gently tried to steer his second offer away. He seemed not to want to take no for an answer. “You look like you need help here and you are, very...handsome” he’d said with a wide smile. Alarm bells were ringing, and I sent him away, stating I needed time to think and get fresh. He replied he’d wait in a nearby cafe for 30 minutes until I’d decided.

The shower was cold, but my clothes had the luxury of a machine wash. For that alone, the apartment was worth the money. Even without any detergent.

Feeling obliged to say yes, and trying to embrace Mario’s offer, I let him escort me around the city. When he returned, he’d needed to take a copy of my passport. Luckily, he’d noticed that I was born in 1972, making me really old! Bonanza! Mario had me down as 38, max. There are definitely advantages to being older. Clearly my invisibility cloak needed turning up.

The city of Split was my favourite place on the trip, possibly now one of my top 10 cities I’ve visited. Learning about Game of Thrones and filming season 5 here, Mario also told me a little about the city’s history. The 1800 year old Roman buildings were to me more incredible than Venice. Although the city catered for tourists, it felt tasteful and the ambience was perfect. There felt like more local presence than foreigners, and I felt very much at home.

I managed to shake Mario after buying him a couple of beers and insisting I was going to dinner to a restaurant recommended by a friend back home (which was true). Alarmingly, Mario stated as he left that he would arrive 30 minutes before I was due to leave and the best was yet to come and that it would ensure I would give him and the experience of Split 10/10, and that I would never forget it. I wished for nothing more than to open the door the next morning and see Mario with his German Shepherd, brought along to make me smile.

I had a restless night worrying about what might happen when the sun rose. I worried that there were cameras hidden throughout the apartment and couldn’t fail to notice a macabre print on his bedroom wall involving a female back and a blood-tipped dripping knife. I wanted to leave early and before he arrived, but I had to return his key. I’m just too honest. I could have just left a note and hidden the key. Why didn’t I?

8am came and a few minutes before, Mario knocked at the door. Minutes later he was insistent on my need for a massage. “no, no, no” I repeated. He sat on the sofa. “How do you feel about sex”. I lied and said I’m celibate and have been for many years. Having stupidly already told him I’m divorced, this was indeed possible. He had also clearly not thought through: 1. I had been riding my bike for over two weeks and around 100 miles a day. 2. I gave him no signal at all that I found him attractive. I’d rather go on a date with Golem, if I’m totally honest 3. This was just completely wrong. Since when is it right to set up your flat on Booking.com as a sex trap? I may sound old fashioned here, but because I am very confident, I could extract myself and did from this situation about 5 minutes later. What worries me, and having a daughter of 20, is how many females find themselves in this really awkward situation and locked inside someone’s apartment and either he is more forceful or they are less confident? To me, this is just wrong. So, I reported it. The audacity of Mario thinking his methods would get him 10/10 on booking.com. Incredulous, I left for my ride nearly 2 hours early with a tainted view of Split...

A couple of miles into my ride and the wind blew Mario well into the north and slapped me at every meander in the road. The skies were menacingly dark, it started to rain but it was just what I needed.

The best part about point to point expeditions is that every day, the view, the lay of the land changes (if you’re going around 100 miles a day - those laden with panniers might not have the same view. Riding to Bosnia, I worked harder than any other day to keep moving. These were the strongest winds, unsteady, blustery on undulations and climbs that never relented. But what kept me going is for another day, I felt like I’d skipped into another country, and in fact, would, later that day. Clouds hung low over the mountain tops and the sea looked angry and temperamental.

But somehow, after another mountain border, I made it to Bosnia, and the little coastal town of Neum. My best accommodation yet, which looked west over a quiet sea bay, and my first sunbathe of the trip. After such a stormy day, this little sleepy haven seemed like tranquility personified. Getting going again would be tough. For the only time since leaving home, my kicked off, ripped off clothes would remain unwashed and on the floor until they adorned my slowly cracking body the next day.

And now, Saturday. Another country beckons, and the hospitality of someone I’ve never met. I have exclusive use of a penthouse apartment in Herceg Novi, owned by a Norwegian friend of my brother. I have to get past Dubrovnik first, and given the forecast, I think it will be w flying visit which is a shame. But time waits for no man, and I’m as useless as a chocolate teapot when it rains..

[elastigirl72]

Day 15: Senj>Zadar

11 days to go. 1285 miles complete 810 or so to go...

You know...that moment...when you look back at your day’s progress on a map and think “you bloody idiot”?, I had that moment yesterday. If I’d allowed it, I would have thought it at around 46km into what should have been a 135km day. The plan had to be to ride along a coastal road, and then follow the Garmin route across to what resembled a spit of desert land rising above the sea, running parallel to the mainland. Getting to the point I would head over to it, an inconspicuous sign which I rode past stated “ferry this way: downhill and might not be open - have you not notified by now how arid it is over there? Ponder all you like...”. Ponder I did. Rerouting would put another 40km on my day, and a shorter day had been the swing in my tail as I’d set of from Senj. But doing the math, I figured out at best, if the ferry was open, I’d save no time by the time I crossed and risked dying alone as my body evaporated in its last pool of sweat. Confidently, I kept going and said goodbye to the day’s plan A, but knowing that my accommodation had been booked several days early in a fleeting period of strength: I can do this, book 5 days ahead (for the only time this trip).

The coastal road, E65, is something you just can’t prepare for. Getting here suddenly looked like a bloody long odyssey, but here it was, nirvana on a bike where I had least expected it. Whilst barely springlike, the sun has made an early appearance, and for the first time since France, I ventured out without my fluorescent overshoes and winter gloves. It was Labour day in Greece which was also a genuine stroke of luck; if juggernauts used this route as I’m sure they must, they weren’t out today. Instead, my company was mostly of the motorised two-wheel variety. Hundreds and hundreds of bikers must have past me throughout the 130km before it turned west towards Zadar and through the Paklenica National Park. Although the water to my right was sea, this day was the closest to what I’ve seen in Canada and Northern US states in Europe. Miles and miles of pristine tarmac, few other motorists in all, the road meandering in and out as the mountain contours meet the Adriatic. If I was tired, I didn’t notice. My company for the day was Chris Bonnington’s autobiography and great music. I even awarded myself a lunch stop, and was unaffected by the rain as it gently fell as I pushed on for the last 30 miles.

The thing is, I arrived at my day’s destination, an apartment somewhere above Zadar. I washed my clothes, walked 2km to the nearest supermarket, went home, ate it, and didn’t leave the apartment again. In short, the 30 miles I spent travelling west could have been spent travelling south, thus contributing towards my total distance rather than adding 30 additional god damn miles. So. The moral of this story is when you plan your route using Strava, it won’t tell you that someone kept their Garmin on for the crossing. It will just give you “the most popular route”. GRRRR...

Now I have that out of my system, I’m excited to be reaching Split today. I hope to get there a little earlier and I am (I really hope) staying in the heart of the city. I hope also to “split” with my leg warmers and overshoes, but looking at any of the forecasts on my 4 apps, there’s still some cold days ahead. What to believe? I have added porridge oats and teabags to my load as it seems apartments are de riguer in Croatia and prepared breakfasts are not. I am ok with that as I love my porridge more than any other breakfast in the world. It’s just weight. Talking of which, I made the mistake of picking up my bike yesterday with no mounted luggage. How I want to ride it again as it was designed to be: light, aggressive, sleek, aero, fast...it’s almost worth taking an extra day somewhere now to experience that joy once again.

To keep me going, I’m now toting up the total distance remaining every day and dividing that between remaining days. Depending on when I get into Athens, I need to ride a minimum of 70 mile a day and more if I want to get there early. Today it’s around 138km, so I’ll either get there early or I have a shorter day up the road. This is the game I’ll play every day till I arrive...sun’s up 😊

[elastigirl72]

Day 13-14: Veneto>Trieste, Trieste>Senj

1,187 miles completed, 900 or so to go...two new countries 🇸🇮🇭🇷

Greetings from Senj, Croatia 😊

WHAT THE HELL do Croatians put in their Lemon Ice Tea? If I got 3 hours sleep last night I’d be exaggerating. But that it’s my go to energy drink for cycling here, it bodes well for an excellent ride 😊 The last time I felt this wired, well, too long. The likely explanation is the E numbers in the supposed healthier option of iced tea; equally, I’ve just cycled through a country, crossing it’s border silently, just a sign to say I was approaching Slovenia, and 250 metres later, boom: no control, cars, only a change of tarmac, once grey and flat, now pale and cracked.

I assumed the control point was further on up the mountain; surrounded by lush forests and rolling hills, void of life other than the apparent chorus of feathered natives. The sun hadn’t fully appeared and the weather could go either way, leaving me rather focused on the option of getting over the top and in to Croatia quickly. The final peak on the route is around 900m, but even my luggage felt lighter than any other climb I’d done this trip. Rolling on, I eventually hit a border control believing this was Slovenia, and for the first time, I was asked for my passport by a guard who came out and met me, and taught me that “Vala” was thank you. None the wiser that I had crossed into Croatia, my bike, Monkey II and it’s younger sibling, my frame bag, rolled on, blissfully alone. I’d realised that Spotify had moved into the next week and the deepest joy, a new Discover Weekly playlist. Artificial intelligence is very clever. In the tunes it presented me this week, first on the list, Crazy by Seal, Moving by Supergrass. I couldn’t be more elated on a ride than I felt in those two hours. I was in my own private heaven.

Not until I stopped for cappuccino at Cafe Bicicletta did I realise it was the Croatian border I crossed. I should have realised passing through Rejika, a crumbing, graffiti, once grand port city, interlaced with tram lines and an intricate network of roads. I looked very alien, and the city people looked very different to those I had seen in Trieste, just 20 miles ago and a country away. I didn’t know until I paid for my drinks that Croatia, whilst in the EU, has its own currency, the Kuna. I’d bought a roll, and at what I believed was €2.70 for a bit of bread, I was getting the “tourist” rate, the lady corrected me, taking my euro coins, all 50c, and putting me out of my confusion.

1000m climbed and 40 miles to go, the landscape again changed dramatically. Forested mountains to my left, the Adriatic and stark, barren, sometimes silhouetted landscapes to my right. It was beautiful, the route, challengingly hilly, and still the heavy clouds followed me, reminding me to keep pedalling or risk a soaking. I realised at this point my chain had developed a new rub in the big ring. It’s quite disheartening to hear...so small ring most of the remaining miles the answer.

I have a habit of unknowingly booking my bed at the highest point in a town. The accommodations in Senj was just this, with a 30% wrong turn to finish and 2200 climbing metres for the day, finally arrived, meeting the friendliest hosts of my trip, immaculate studio apartment, a freshly made tea, overlooking the ancient town and it’s proud castle. My goodness, I had arrived. It started to feel like the Odyssey had been to get to this Dalmatian Coastline. Inclement weather across Italy behind me, now I could breathe. If I hadn’t already felt challenged, it was now I was going to find out what I am made of.

Looking back at Italy, whilst I love Italy, I had not loved this particular visit. I’d got unlucky with the low weather front that arrived as I reached the Alps, and is still with me, but hopefully passing. I could have left later in the year. But if I felt the roads were busy now, in two months, they’d be so much worse.

I hit my low points in Italy (assuming there will be no more). I had to force a rest day after Venice, huddling down in a closed petrol station deciding how long I could survive as I chilled to the bone, sheltering from the freezing wind and wet to the core despite my wet weather gear. After finding the nearest hotel, and then waking the next day to the same torrential rain and 4 degrees, my heart was truly deflated. There was only one thing for it. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. It was drastic, but the ridiculousness of the necessity to dress up as a cycling clown weirdly raises my spirits. The hotel owner, Rosa, and her husband, who called himself Leonardo (da Vinci) after helping to craft my stapled bin liner dress to go with my ingenious shower cap helmet/head saver, joined in laughing at my insistence at my intention to at least start again rather than get a train, or another friend’s suggestion, a ferry. All great options. Only to me that felt like failure. By 10 I was on the road with gritted teeth and an unbreaking resolve to make it to Trieste.

Looking left, I could see the Dolomites like a northern wall, covered in snow to the lower levels, a constant reminder of how messed up my trip would have been if I’d gone with any intial plan to ride through Trento. Surprisingly, the rain abated somewhat by the time I reached the Italian Rice Fields, wetlands with more water networks than I’ve ever seen and an abundance of wetland birds of all shapes and sizes. I had no nutrition for this 5 hour ride. I’d didn’t stop. And at 3:10pm, I arrived, victorious in the Italian Riviera town of Trieste. I really liked it here. My room was great, central, and vibrant atmosphere all around. I made my four yearly visit to McDonald’s to get a hot chocolate (amazing in Italy! Last time I was in McDonald’s was also a cycling trip in Italy in 2016, where starving and desperate after a long hard ride and all of Italy closed for lunch, I ordered 9 chicken nuggets, 6 chicken wings, a side salad, and fries, and ashamedly, enjoyed and demolished them all 😆). Knowing that a tough day lay ahead, I found my local bike mechanic to give my bike a mini service and at 10am I hit the road in search of new countries.

A few friends knowing what I’m doing, cycling from home to somewhere in Greece, ask am I having fun. This is my 6th cycling adventure, and in my head, an adventure won’t always be fun. Sometimes it won’t be fun at all, from beginning to end. Some adventures will be a combination of fun and he’ll, and the hope is that the trip will be more fun than arduous. The thing is, when it’s a good day, it’s amazing. There are incredible moments, desperate days, and varying degrees of pain and pleasure. But I think is good to take the risk and see what happens. At no point during or after an adventure have I said “I wish I hadn’t done it”. Even travelling alone and carting your own gear, riding 6 hours a day or more in all weather, you take yourself both mentally and physically to places otherwise unreachable, creating heightened memories and teaching you things about yourself, revealing your weaknesses and discovering strengths. I wasn’t sure I’d have a knee strong enough to make this trip. But here I am, over half way, excited, happy, weary but ready for another day. And when all is said and done, it’s still only a trip around a supermarket car park compared to those that climb mountains or sail across oceans. I have so many options to get home. On my hardest day this trip, I was sat within 5 miles of an international airport (Marco Polo), a train station (could have got me to Trieste) and a ferry terminal (anywhere between Trieste, Dalmatian Coastline and Athens).

I still have my cycling t shirt casual evening attire. I wear it now almost to excuse myself for my scruffy appearance. As if to say “no need to ask. Yup. Cyclist. Solo. Smelly. Weird”. I’ve also not managed to shed my wet weather gear yet but it’s coming. I can feel it! 😊

[elastigirl72]

Day 10-11: Como>Garda, Garda>Venice

996 miles completed: roughly halfway if I go through Italy

There are some advantages to looking like a vagrant in Venice. I’d heard from a Polish girl at the hostel in Como that she was approached many times by street vendors trying to sell her goods. I also was left alone by the waiters in the restaurant that I entered, asking for a table, I think they believed that I was going to ask them for some free food! When I sat down for my dinner of Quattro fromaggio pizza and also asked for rosé wine, they informed me that they didn’t, well, actually, I think they believed I only wanted a glass and perhaps could only afford a glass, but they did then say that they had half a bottle and was surprised when I took them up on their suggestion! They will probably also quite surprised that I was able to pay and also left a tip.

There were so many places that I could’ve chosen to eat in Venice. It was a truly magical place and evening the best time to arrive, as the hoards disappated. I chose probably the most touristy non-Italian restaurant in the end, overlooking the water taxi. As it happens, this was a great place because it allowed me to people watch for the whole of my meal. I already noticed the people seemed to dress up in Venice, and it was tricky to spot a resident or tourist. But after some time, it was at least easy to spot the female visitors; it seems that I missed the rule book that when in Venice, you must wear the regulation floral, floaty skirt. No wonder I stood out like an alien! Nobody had given me the memo! The net result was that i stood out because I must have been given my clothes by a charity and this is all they had! Noted. Must remember for next time!

Waking up on my 12th day on the road, I am missing my feminine side. I do have one. It’s not always obvious. I know. But looking out of my curtain-less room, and seeing rain and heavy winds forecast again, I know I can neither send my kit home yet (or quite frankly, bin it as in my head it’s getting pretty manky now, or at least I’m sick of it), or trade it in for a white linen floaty dress for my non-bike attire. Italian women make beauty seem so easy. Candala, my host receptionist at the hostel in Como, and the most genuinely beautiful and friendly person I’ve met this trip, insisted on taking a photo of me, and I’d already planned to do the same of her. Being Italian, tall and gorgeous, we went outside the hostel, and she adopted her pose: ripping down her tied up hair and shimmying into a girly pose, suddenly she became a young Sophia Loren. Man. If that didn’t put me in my rightful spot as a nobody, I don’t know what would. How is it that some nations are just so classicamente bello?

Being an older female traveller can work in favour for your safety and becoming transparent isn’t a bad thing (unless you’re on your bike on a busy road). I feel more transparent than ever (until when people ask: where are you are you going? Ok. And where are you from? Then it’s like: what the...but where is your luggage? (every time 😆)) I think we as women can all accept who we are. My mum said that when she had kids she became invisible. I understood that until I listened to a radio broadcast where the broadcaster said that when you are older and as he was, in your 60s you become transparent and his explanation was is that nobody wants to have sex with you anymore. I think as it’s somewhere between the two. Either way, because nobody wants to have sex with you anymore, and you’re transparent, it all plays well for my current state of mind which is not giving a hoot about who sees me and in what near naked state. In the hostel, I walked around my female dorm in my knickers. And here, in my overpriced “hotel” room, where I had to ask for towels and they’ve just run out of toilet paper in the shared bathroom, screw it. If I want to wake up and walk to the toilet in my knickers, that’s what I’m going to do. No one can see me right? And if they can. I’ve got a farmer’s tan on my upper body and cyclist’s tan on my legs. Good luck to anyone should my invisibility cloak fall off!

Ah ramble, ramble, ramble. Sunday morning and not in a hurry. Bliss! So, reflections on the last few days.

1. The weather was pretty crap around Bellinzona to Coma and from Coma to Bergamo. So, not many pictures there then.

2. Don’t rule out hostels as a way to travel. If you can put up with the worst snoring you’ve ever heard in your life, or want to get some feedback on your own snoring from strangers, they’re a great option. They also provide company in a way that a hotel room just won’t.

3. Although it’s painful to sit and wait to see what the weather will do, it’s absolutely worth it. I waited 3 hours st Como, almost resigning myself to a day off and another day in the hostel. But my rare patience paid off and I largely stayed dry until Garda, 100 miles down the road.

4. Como and Lugano, obviously the playground for many Italians are not my favourite lakes or places in Italy. As far as lakes go, I prefer both Maggiore and now visited, Garda.

5. Be prepared for diabolical traffic and roads around the area. Combined with Italian driving, the cycling experience not for the first time in that area left wanting. I have learned that Italians do not know stop, wait or slow down. They also don’t indicate to pass a moving cyclist. In fact, they don’t slow down or move out either. I thought Americans were bad on my last road trip, but the Italians win, hands down. If there is any doubt for an Italian when making a decision on a driving maneouvre it will always be go, and speed up if necessary. Never stop or hesitatate.

I had always planned in this trip to have a few flat days and before I got to my “crossroads” at Venice: left or right, hoping that the decision to go left would be easy. Other than Death Valley, there can’t be any flatter plains than northern Italy with the Alps peering down on you. It was a good plan. My heart rate makes me look like I’m riding an e-bike. I’ve never seen it so low and for such long rides. I’m working at about 25% of my normal intensity but still somehow moving. At this rate, I’ll have to watch what I’m eating! I know this is my body telling me to take a rest day, and also know that if I do, I will be flying again the day after the rest. But it’s hard to do. I have 3 rest days in the bank still but know I’ve got some pretty tough days ahead of me if I turn left down the Dalmatian Coastline. The rest will do me good, but it’s expensive here and I also feel I still need to keep these days in reserve for emergencies. What to do...hmmm. Maybe the weather will make the decision for me today. It’s thundering and now it’s started to hail... Is the next stop Trieste to the east or Ravenna to the south...

I should feel more physically broken than I do, but it’s more my mojo that needs filling up. And that is purely down to travelling alone. A gondola for one isn’t much fun...I consider this a recce and one day I’ll be back, only with a friend or two...for now, I get a privileged view and experience that most won’t. How lucky am I? 😊

[elastigirl72]

Day 10: Como

As I lie here having spent the last 8 hours listening to my Brazilian bunk mate snore louder and in more varieties than I have ever heard any man, woman or child snore before, I have time to contemplate and reflect. I cannot fit any more silicon earplugs into my ears, and even if I could, there are no more anyway. And still, the rumble through the steel of the bed, through my bones and into my skull where it resonates like a troubled pneumatic drill. I just wonder if anyone should tell her how bad she is...the two other ladies sharing the dorm must have suffered too...

Apart from that, this hostel is AMAZING! And in a strange way, I feel like I’m at work, in a very positive way. I’m surrounded by an international crowd of mostly young and enthusiastic travellers from all over the world. I spent the evening chatting with two Dutch guys and a Polish girl, all InterRail travellers, making the most of one or two weeks of annual leave. The curry Xander made smelt so enticing, I was disappointed that I’d already bought and eaten my food. Finding somewhere at such short notice and such good value in a renowned millionaires’ paradise (including my 5th heart throb, George Clooney), I couldn’t have felt more smug, sipping my free shandy and listening to Otis Redding’s “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay” (coincidentally which I was!)

Getting past the disappointment and missing of one of my adventure’s highlights, the Alps crossing, arriving in Bellinzona was like a slap in the face, in a good way. Alighting the train and entering the historic mountain town, I was confused: Switzerland or Italy? Cobbled streets, three castles, nestled in the high mountains, even the people looked less Swiss and more Italian. I found a hidden coffee shop to figure out Plan C (I had Plans A and B but they were pretty loose; ultimately, the plan was simply to get to Athens for 12 May), a large German speaking Swiss guy insisted following my adoring smile (at his dog, I should add) that I give his Pyrenean Labrador Sam some love, and that he take pictures (fortunately with my phone, as otherwise that could have been quite weird) as I do so. So far from home this felt like home. The cafe owners were lovely and although no one spoke much English, we got by, them telling me about Bellinzona and how Americans thought Switzerland was Sweden, and how some Swiss living there refused to accept the town as Swiss, and preferring to believe they are Italian. It’s easy to see how I was confused! The lady cafe owner also shared that 150 years ago or so, the town was in fact Italian, but somehow the border changed and it became Swiss. It was never in the plan to come here, but it is worth a visit.

Leaving the town, the rain began to fall, I electrocuted myself trying to get a good photo of a mountain cow, and whilst I had convinced myself that this day would be an easy day, downhill all the way to Como and beautiful, the route when I found it immediately took me up Mount Cerni...I was not prepared!

My confusion remained all the way to Como: where is the Italian border? Too many cars, and whilst many seem to love Lugano, I couldn’t wait to get through it. The area is as busy as the London suburbs and the driving seemed to deteriorate. I didn’t lust at the beautiful vistas, as most things look crap in the rain. I just wanted to put my bike away and have an easy day. All of a sudden, there it was: the Italian Border! One final climb, a descent, and I was there, right in the heart of Como.

Donning my flip flops and rain jacket after my much needed shower, I’d used up the last of my luxury item, shampoo and conditioner. I was starting to look and feel like a hobo. I craved moisturiser and found a beauty shop, suruptiously opening a sample and pretending I was trying them all out with the intention of buying. Normally, I’d get away with this, but flip flops in the rain give it away. No umbrella, walking beautiful streets even in the pouring rain, it wasn’t lost on me how alien I was to this affluent settlement. I decided that it’s not that far to drive: I’d come down here and load up on another day...

I can’t wait for breakfast! Maybe I will get back to sleep for an hour or so. I really love these hostels though. Travelling alone as I so often do now, it’s an easy source of company of like-minded people. I could have stayed up for the live music but hearing how the bar staff were giving everyone free shots the night before, i seinsibly declined my Dutch friends’ offer to join them! Another night, another hostel. If the weather allows, I’ll make it to Lake Garda today...I’m prepared for a soaking 🙄

[elastigirl72]

Day 9: Somewhere near Zurich—train to Bellinzona—Bellinzona>Como 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🇫🇷🇨🇭🇮🇹

796 miles completed

Shocking: I have just looked in the mirror in the funny little apartment with the curious “professional sportsman” host. 10 rounds with the wind yesterday has left its trophy and I could be mistaken for a losing boxer. You can just about make out when my eyes are open if you look carefully! There is a wind warning for my planned destination today; it’s uphill into the Alps and the direction is head on 🙁. I have resigned myself that with snow forecast tonight and tomorrow at lower levels, a train looks inevitable for the crossing into Italy. My biggest concern is that I have very little clothing and only footwear is flip flops and cycle shoes 😳. There’s 3 seats left on the train...I better get booking...

Aaaaand...breathe...

The last 24 hours have been such a mixed bag. I guess I’m a little tired, so pleasing me right now if you were with me would be challenging but you’d either get a response of a few expletives or hugs and tears. Riding into Switzerland was another emotional moment, as I love crossing borders and other than the persisting headwind which increased to near gale force by the end of yesterday’s ride, I’ve been incredibly lucky: this trip could have been so different and was clearly risky doing it so early in the year. But when you’re tired and grumpy, any luck seems hard to draw on for inspiration.

I decided once I hit Basel to follow Google Maps cycle route towards Zurich. I’d hoped to make it as far as Rapperswil. Having raced and worked in both places several times, it’s an area I’m quite familiar with and very fond. If you can put aside the extortion for anything that involves a purchase, it is the price you pay for the back drop of snow-peaked mountains and glistening lakes. On my previous Alps crossing in 2015, I steered clear of the cities and major roads, and decided that from the three countries I’d visited, the Swiss were the least convivial. But this time, I felt positively charmed by motorists I’d not met, but who voluntarily stopped their cars anticipating my desire to cross a road or pass through a roundabout. The route I ended up on, which darted next to the German border, and across the Rheine, formed part of a Eurovelo route which are now being established across Europe. Where it landed on the Route 3 Road to Zurich, it had a marked cycle lane, and on trails, well marked - on the whole. But I still managed to get lost at a significant point on the route, and not even finishing the bag of M&Ms I’d brought for motivation brought me back to believing that not even the wind could stop me getting to Rapperswil. At 5 O’Clock and 8.5 hours after starting my day, I plonked myself down on a wall next to a (sadly closed) sushi restaurant and found the nearest, most cost-effective bed for the night at “Hotel Eric”. 14km short of the target for the day and 7km short of the centre of the city. It’s fair to say I’d had enough.

With 30 minutes notice of my booking and arrival, it’s fair to say that “Hotel Eric” (Eric) was not ready for me: not so much of a hotel but his apartment with a spare bedroom and a skanky cat. He delighted in telling me that he was having a bowel inspection the next day and would therefore be on the laxatives. I can’t say I felt super welcome in the “hotel” and he suggested that I ate my dinner in my room. His apartment was a juxtaposed set of modern and antique; a crystal chandelier and crumbling furniture, fine art and an ikea-like interior set. I didn’t feel at all settled there, but I found my slightly alarming guilty pleasure in that boiling the 1980s kettle he’d left in my room and filling my cup, the kettle didn’t switch off. I wasn’t aware of this until returning from the kitchen to see the electricity off and a red glow coming from the inside of the kettle. Ah, that’s interesting, I thought, with no sense of alarm that the electric smell now radiating from the room was very short of creating a fire. The fuse box tripped, and I walked calmly to the kitchen to fill the kettle with water and went to bed, no electricity, and waited for the smell to dissipate. I decided not to wake Eric as he’d gone to bed very early and would wake early. Instead, until I left at least, the electricity shorting would be a mystery which had nothing to do with me...considering future residents, I’d message him the next day and suggest a new kettle.

I slept terribly, worried about the wind warning and snow forecast for my initial assault on the Alps. Bernina Pass Express still seemed like the sensible option, but there were only 3 seats left. As the booking required for a printed ticket, I’d wait until the morning and call before I booked. As it happens, a wise decision, as whilst I’d previously been on the train with my bike, this lady was adamant now it wasn’t allowed. A radical change of plan was required. Risking the Alps when snow is forecast was likely to be detrimental for the rest of my trip; getting to Chur or St-Moritz with no train option and the Pass possibly being closed could leave me stranded for days. It seemed the sensible option was a train from Zurich to somewhere. So this is where I am. I guess I have to remember when in certain countries you say “I’d like the next direct train to wherever”, they won’t tell you what time it’s leaving, they’ll just give you the ticket and say “you have 10 minute to board”. Whilst slightly panicked that I’d miss it, I ran to the nearest buffet rapide and grabbed a coffee and pretzel, and as it happens, someone else’s delicious Tuna roll 😊. Both now devoured whilst travelling watching the beautiful Swiss countryside whizz by, babies gurgling and babbling all around me, and strangely, enjoying a decision I’d made, which gave me respite from wind and snow, and a well-needed rest. In one way, I’m sad that I will now not ride the whole way, but another, know that this is the right choice. It’s hard to believe bad weather is due as I look at the sun lashing down. But now, I see a flag, stiff in the wind, white horses on a mountain lake you could surf, and the train is going directly into a crazy 40kmph headwind. I feel calm...

[elastigirl72]

Day 8: Offemont>Zurich

740 miles completed

It’s Swiss Day! Other than that I have no idea where I will finish. As anticipated, the bad weather is due to arrive just as I cross the Alps! 😣. I know I can’t complain as at the least, I now get to wear my wet weather gear I’ve been carrying for 7 days. It’s easier to wear it than carry it. I had hoped to cross from Saint Morritz, over the Bernina Pass to Torino, a gem of an Italian alpine town which if I get there, will be my third visit since 2015. However, the forecast:

There is the option of the UNESCO Heritage Bernina Pass Express, which leaves tomorrow evening at 1532. This is a trip worth making even if you don’t ride all the wet from the U.K.:

I’ve checked 1000 times before I left, whilst I e been on the road and last night, but Google wants to send me further east. So, I think I ride today until I get fed up with the rain and take it from there. Hopefully Lake Zurich is on the cards 😊.

Honestly, I already feel like I’m in Switzerland. Although my backpack felt heavy yesterday, the landscape changed as did the architecture of the hillside chalets and towns. I felt my first spots of rain, and having stayed in a bargain price, perfect Airbnb last night, I feel rested and ready. Reflecting on yesterday’s ride, it was long, and I was accompanied by Ben (Fogle) and James (Cracknell) for some of the way. They did a good job of blocking some of the fatigue as they reminded me what they did in rowing the Atlantic makes my trip look like a ride across Sainsbury’s car park at 10am. I didn’t book my accommodation until my first stop of the day for supplies and what is becoming my daily routine of finding a grassy car park bank to demolish food, and yesterday’s menu, Sushi. At 71 miles, I was tired. But knowing the daily target was 150km (94 miles) I needed to push on just a bit. I dreaded getting back on my bike, but after 1 hour of dithering and distraction, I mounted the steed and hit the road. I was surprised that my legs felt fresher, and fresher again after carefully pigeon stepping across my first flip-flop river crossing. In my head, Ben’s sagely words: “Add life to your days, not days to your life”...

[elastigirl72]

Day 3-7: Sevenoaks>Offemont

Adding England to the list of countries I’ll pass through, if it goes to plan, there’s a possible 14 up for grabs:

Wales

England

France

Germany

Switzerland

Lichtenstein

Austria

Italy

Slovenia

Croatia

Montenegro

Bosnia

Albania

Greece

At this stage. I’m confident about 3. Only because I’ve done them!

Sevenoaks, England, 19 April 170 miles completed

After applying self-physio, my emergency dosage of codeine and messing around with both my cleat and saddle for around an hour and 4 attempts, I was on the flattest and most traffic free route I could think of and for the first time, listening to music for the first time this trip, I expected the A25 to be rammed, having received several warnings from P & O and the likely congestion at the port. As it happened, either I plotted brilliantly or more than the normal number of people who’d planned a trip to France had stayed away because of the Brexit possibility. I owned the road, and just as I couldn’t feel any more pleased with myself as the sun warmed the road in front of me, and Spotify presented me with Matt Monro “On day’s like these” a motorbiker sped past me doing a wheelie! Perfect timing 😊

Summitting the biggest climb of the day at Wye, the cross England achievement came to me, helping me believe that Athens may be achievable. Feeling quite emotional, I ate 3 shot blocks and marvelled at the sheep on the crest of the hill with the Kent vista behind them.

I had little clue where I was until I rode past the Battle of Britain Museum on Aerodrome Road and onto Spitfire Lane, finally descending into Dover after a few finally hilly miles, past the queuing lorries and cars, straight into the port. Stage 1 complete.

Cycling across a continent from home has so many advantages than getting on a plane and doing it from somewhere else: you can be flexible about when you start and if you’re lucky, you might have company for a few days.

Saint-Quentin, France, 20 April, 362 miles completed

This stage was longer, windy, hillier than expected, but fantastic in being so exciting for the first mainland European stage of the trip. Whilst blogging time was curtailed, the real highlight of the day was making it to Intermarche just in time to buy dinner. Dinner consisted of chicken sausages, strawberries and orange yoghurt eaten using a finger as a spoon on the sunny bank of the supermarket car park, washed down with a bottle of beer topped up with some lemonade. Other than the hotel room, this is as much as I saw of St-Quentin. But it is one of the highlights so far for the trip 😃

Chalons-en-Champagne, 21 April, 458 miles completed

As I’m writing from a two day old memory now, I recall villages that seemed to resemble a film set of Les Miserables, headwind, and I’ve lost a pair of knickers somewhere along the way...the supermarket shopping list gets longer...Reims is a beauty, but something inside me stops me from entering religious buildings unless it’s absolutely necessary. I know I’m going to hell, so I guess that has something to do with it. But Reims Cathedrale is beautiful feom the outside and I felt a tinge of sadness thinking about Notre Dame. Only after I’d visited did Dad say “did you go inside and see the Rose Window?” So, this is what you must do if you go. I settle for Rose Champage as my Di2 Battery recharged.

It was a day for cathedrals, as Chalons for which I knew nothing about, provided its own night show with the city’s towering and magnificent architecture. Is it something to do with getting older that these buildings seem to grow in fascination?

Chaumont, 22 April, 552 miles completed

No pictures here, but Chaumont has an amazing canal with a cycle path, marked and paved, that runs for many miles! A lovely surprise.

Offemont, France, 23 April, 652 miles completed (about quarter of way to Athens)

I started writing this on Saturday and decided rapidly to put it on hold as I had gained the esteemed company of Dave. Today, day 7, Dave took his scooter and continued his own adventure. Waking up to this fact and the first clouds I’d seen since before I left home, the day started a little darker and my bag felt a little heavier; my tyres felt a little flatter and I noticed the dirt on my chain.

in January, Dave had decided that he’d like to come along for some of the adventure. From then, it had been an on/off plan, but the crossing tickets were purchased.He bought a scooter and after much dithering, to his word, he appeared at Dover, fearless despite two previous vehicle collisions which led to two separate fractures of his coccyx and no scooter for three years. I didn’t invite him but I did send him an image of a planned route without introduction. I expected the reaction of “nutter” but instead he delivered a “wow!” and “can I come along for a bit?” For the few days he was here, Dave was to me like Ray Mears was to Ffyona Campbell (sadly, not many people know who is is or what she achieved but she inspired me in my teenage years and despite a mistake she made, she achieved so much). Why anyone would want to buy a scooter and meet me at Dover to track a stinky, self-centred cyclist for 3 days is a mystery but one I was very grateful for. Dave is a salty dog, a sailor with 15 years in the RNLI. He’d appear at various points on the route, most memorably on the toughest day, 3 hours in with the best pain au raisin I’ve ever tasted. There was no telling where he’d pop out, offering Percy Pigs which on more than one occasion I rode straight past. By the time he left this morning, Percy Pigs had melted to become one large pink sausage, which in a low moment today, was devoured like I’d never experienced sweet stuff before.