My recent podcast interview on adventuring:
Category: Wandering
2015 Cycle Touring FAQ
What countries are you going through?
Starting in Istanbul: Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, -Czech Republic, -Slovenia, Switzerland, France, Ireland, +Northern Ireland
So why Turkey?
Because I haven’t been there before? That really is a large part of the reason.
It’s worth noting this isn’t the first time I’ve cycle toured. This is my 9th trip cycling in Europe, for a combined total of 9+ months of cycling there. My last trip was to Poland, so I at least have some exposure to Eastern Europe. I haven’t been to most of Eastern Europe yet, and it’s about time.
Istanbul was also about the right place to time meeting a friend mid-August in Switzerland.
Ireland? Isn’t there water in the way?
I’m going to tie pool noodles to my bike, and flippers on the rear wheel…
I’ll take a ferry, like everyone else. (And no, I won’t ride in circles on the deck, they won’t let you.) Everyone seems to ask this and think it’s clever and funny.
How long will that take?
As long as it takes. I figure around the end of Sept.
I’ll just see how it works out. I’ve got a few places to go and see at certain times, and it’s easy enough to solve timing issues with a bus or train along the way. My return flight is currently Sept. 30.
Will you buy a bike there?
No, I’ll take the one I’ve had since 2006.
On my first tour I flew into London, panniers in hand, with the intent to buy a bike there. Imagine if you will arriving in the center of New York City with a plan to buy a bike, while dragging non-portable luggage. I had a hard time finding a bicycle shop, much less one that wasn’t filled with state-of-the-art high tech ($) bicycles! I finally found a shop and left with a touring bike, but it was a very stressful time. In hindsight, going to somewhere like Cambridge would have made a lot more sense.
How will you get your bike there?
The bike will be packed in a box, as checked luggage. All I have to do is turn the handlebars sideways, and remove the pedals. I’ll pack much of my gear with it. Really the challenge is getting the pedals off the bicycle.
Taking a bicycle with you adds other challenges. Each airline charges a different amount for carrying a bicycle, ranging anywhere from $0 to $300, each way! You also have to be sure that each leg of the flight is on a plane large enough to accommodate a bicycle box.
The other concern is the bike arriving at my destination when I do. I try to plan as few layovers as possible (typically one), and then for ~4 hour/layover (enough time to have the bike change planes, not enough time that they set it aside out of the way). If the bike misses the plan, it will usually show up the next day.
What will you do with the box when you arrive?
When I’m following a circular path, sometimes I can store the box in a hostel, and use the box again on my return. When not, I figure it out at the end.
For this trip, I’ll reassemble the bicycle and panniers at the airport, and cycle out of the airport, waving a fond adieu to the box. In Dublin, I’ll deal with how to get the bicycle back at the end of the trip.
On one tour, about a week out of Madrid, I was talking with a couple of Spanish cyclists about my plan to take a train back to my starting point in Paris. They said there was no way to get a bike on a train from Madrid to Paris, and that it was going to be a problem even getting it on a plane! They invited me to stay with them in Madrid, and the girlfriend of one was a travel agent, and she helped me come up with a plan of having a bicycle shop disassemble the bike and ship it home, while I flew back to Paris. That was going to be a pain, since I’d be sans-bicycle in Paris, but it was better than the alternative.
That issue being resolved, I spent the next few days touring around Madrid. The day before my flight I decided to cycle into the airport on the off-chance there was a better solution. I asked at the counter whether they might have a bicycle box, and the woman at the counter said, “You mean like this?” and pulled a box out! Problem solved. The bike being lost anyway when I flew into Paris is another story…
Turkey to Ireland? How far is that?
Google Maps makes it ~4200 km by direct route. My route will likely be anything but direct; I estimate ~ 6000 km (that’s 3600 miles).
How far will you cycle every day?
Averaging 40(ish) miles. Weather, hills, head/tail winds, what shape I’m in, as well as what’s along the way, factor heavily into that. I tend to start slow, and build up distance over time. I also take days off to rest and recover.
I usually average ~10 mph, so that’s about 4 hours of cycling spread out across the day. I’m really slow – the typical cyclist in the US in spandex and neon is typically going 18-28 mph. They can cycle in a couple of hours as far as I go all day!
On my first tour in 1989, I was in southern Germany figuring out what my current cash situation was, and realized that with my average daily spending, I would be out of cash before I was back in England for my return flight. After some calculations, I decided if I significantly increased my daily total miles I could make it back. I arrived in England having done 250k / day for about 10 days, and was out of cash. I expected to spend my last night there camping in a field, but woke that final day to find the two cyclists I’d met the night before had paid for my campsite. The US Customs officials let me through Customs to go to an ATM to pay the import duty on my maps.
What will you eat?
Anything not moving fast enough? The same things I eat here really. A lot of grains and fruits. And cookies.
I was in Denmark with a German cyclist I’d met along the way, doing the mundane task of shopping for groceries. As I loaded up my basket with my usual supplies he grabbed my arm and said, “Not those! Those cookies are 1500 kilocalories. These! These cookies are 1800 kilocalories!”
Are you going by yourself, or with a group?
Just me, although I will undoubtedly run into cyclists along the way that are headed along the same path.
My second day out of Stockholm I ran across another cyclist tinkering with his bike. Turns out he’d made a bet with his friends that he couldn’t cycle to Norway (I believe there was also a girl involved). He’s bought a bike at a second-hand shop, tossed together what he could find, and was making his way in that direction. We cycled together for four days before our intended paths diverged enough that we went our separate ways. It was a great fit. I had touring experience (including the tools to improve his cycling circumstance) and he could fill me in on the wheres and whys of how things worked in Sweden.
Is your wife going with you?
No.
Long-distance cycling (and going walkabout in general) really isn’t Marnie’s thing. That’s not to say she hasn’t done it. She came with me for a week during one of my four week trips to England, and our honeymoon was four weeks of self-supported cycling in Ireland.
And your wife lets you?
I’m always confused by this question. Marnie and I don’t “let” each other do anything. But to answer the root of the question, Marnie’s ok with it.
Do you know where you’re going to stay?
No, I don’t have any specific itinerary.
Before the dominance of Amazon, it was hard to find maps in advance for parts of Europe, and if you could find them, they were more like 1:1,000,000 scale (mostly super-highways), so not really useful for touring. I’ve even had to go so far as land in the airport, and buy my first map in the airport book store. Now I can usually find 1:300,000 or so scale maps on-line, which are more appropriate for touring to find my way.
Why don’t you use a GPS?
So how long does the battery in your GPS last?
For at least the last few trips I’ve had a GPS on my mobile device. I use it rarely, but it’s helpful in a big city, or when I’m at the top of a really big hill, and not sure which path is the right one down. But to rely on the GPS battery, or not banging it into something and being without direction? Nope.
Where do you stay?
Historically it works out to about 40% camping, 40% hostels, and 20% “Other”. That can depends on the country, and how good my maps are.
Sometimes even when I have a plan it’s not quite what I expect. After a day of pouring rain, I arrived at the hostel to find it full. There was a campground on the other side of town as my alternate camping plan. But as I stood there in the lobby of the campground, soaking wet, with it still pouring rain outside, I saw they rented those small camping cabins. I spent the night toasty warm and dry, with wet gear draped about the room to dry out.
Other?
“Other” can be any number of things. I’ve camped wild (off into the countryside off the road), as well as stayed in abandoned buildings (and even a castle once). I’m occasionally invited to stay with people. A couple of times I’ve even stayed in a hotel!
I’m also likely to give couchsurfing.com and warmshowers.com (with cyclists as the membership base) a try here and there. I prefer to meet people, and you don’t meet people while trying to hide in the woods. On the other hand, if I’ve met someone and am cycling with them, then that again makes more sense.
I was somewhere in the “wilds” of Denmark where I saw another cyclist clearly looking for somewhere to sleep that night off the side of the road. We talked for a while, and I joined his that night, where the two of us swapped stories by headlamp-light. We cycled together for the next couple of days until destinations caused us to go our separate ways.
I could never do that!
Cycle touring isn’t for everyone. There are all sorts of emotional and physical reasons why someone couldn’t bike tour. But you don’t have to be in spectacular physical shape. Europe is small (there’s no point in Ireland less than 100 miles from the ocean).
Everything in Europe tends to be closer than you expect. If you look at North Carolina, it has hostels in 3 places: On the coast, in Raleigh, and in the Appalachians. One night in Germany I went to 5 different (and full) hostels before spending the night in the campground across the street.
I have a personal theory that every country has the same number of interesting things. When you compare the US to most European countries, those things are a lot closer to one another. You just don’t have to bike far to find things to see, you just have to break the mindset of only visiting capital cities.
How much does your stuff weigh?
I travel full self-supported – tent, sleeping bag, stove, etc. I pay close attention to weight, and over the years have collected top-end gear, so my entire touring rig is about 10 kg. But my first tour was an aluminum army mess kit and a Boy Scout-style pup tent. I prefer to be able to support myself for as many use-cases as possible, but people also credit-card tour, where they rely on getting a room every night.
Aren’t you afraid?
To be honest, I range from blasé to terrified. The first few days are always hard, as I have to figure out what’s going on, and settle into a routine. Even then, I know that while many days will be awesome, there will be those days that suck. And that status can swing at a moment’s notice.
But the payback on that investment is spectacular.
The Way
Just finished watching The Way for the second time. Add it to the list of movies that gets to me at a very visceral level.
The story of a father making a trip his son failed to complete — it resonates for me in that sense of discovery that comes with wandering. You meet people you’d never normally meet, and even though everyone wanders for their own reasons, the very fact that, for whatever the cause, the end result lead to wandering is its own commonality among those along the way. There’s a “band of brothers” effect that comes with those you meet.
There are bad days as well as the good ones. Things you have to cope with. Decisions you make that lead you to more problems to deal with. But there’s a certain immediacy of it all. What will happen today? How will this affect tomorrow? The rest of your life you can, at least temporarily, set aside. And when you can’t set it aside, you still gain the opportunity to study life from the outside. That change to your perspective is something you can’t realize until you’re there.
Of course, the failing of the movie is they never get rained on.
Dog Days on the Ocoee
I have always had a soft spot for dogs. Even as a kid I always attempted to rescue whatever “camp dog” was at the campgrounds where we stayed. I even own two rescue dogs. But I get ahead of myself. . .
I wasn’t really sure who I’d paddle with for Ocoee Drawdown, also known as “Week of Ocoee” (WoO). I didn’t know anyone else going up for the week except for Fast Fred. At the last minute a couple of people couldn’t make the trip. When I left work on Friday, I knew only that I was paddling with Wayne Jones on Saturday and everything else was up in the air. Steve Strohmeyer and Conrad Bortz were going to try to meet up with me at some point on Saturday.
I ran into Spencer Muse at a gas station on the way up Friday night (by trying to figure out who had the canoe on top of their car), but he was Nantahala-bound, so there was a paddling partner missed! I pulled into Thunder Rock at about 12:30 am, found Wayne’s campsite, and set up camp. The next morning we began WoO!
After a relatively uneventful descent, Wayne decided he needed a break. He shuttled me back up to the top, where we ran into Dana Lapple, and Brian McPherson, who camped the night before near Wilson Creek, hoping the creek would rise. To their detriment (and my benefit!), it had not, and they’d decided to wander over to the Ocoee. Steve and Conrad pulled up while they were unloading, and we had a crew!
That run had its moments of excitement. Conrad was amazing. I think he flipped everywhere you could flip, and some places I didn’t think you could, but he kept making the rolls–I’m not even going to try to list them all. As but one example, Conrad flipped going over the first drop in Broken Nose, rolled back up, flipped back over on the bottom drop, banged and then pinned against a rock, and then rolled back up. It was incredible. I think by the end he was just showing off.
Sunday morning Conrad decided that perhaps he’d overexerted himself the day before, and chose to park and play at Slice ‘N Dice. He helped set shuttle, and drove back up for more focused day of roll practice. Brian, Dana, Steve, and I had an uneventful trip, with the exception that we could hear a lone dog barking as we came out of Dixie Drive below Western Flyer, somewhere on the river left slope. Strange. Was that barking there yesterday?
Steve and I made a second run that day, and again heard barking in the same place. That’s a steep cliff, just downstream of the landslide that took out the flume last year. How in the world would a dog even get up there? That (Sunday) evening everyone else headed back to their respective homes and I returned to Thunder Rock, wondering what the next day might bring.
Monday morning I rolled out of the tent and, lo and behold, Larry Ausley and Amy Rae Fox were walking by on their way to check with David Lunestra. Excellent! Another wonderful run down the river (well, except that Larry cracked his boat somewhere along the way, leaving him bailing for all he was worth).
One way to know a run down the Ocoee will be interesting is when it’s starting to rain, you’re standing at the top of the ramp at Entrance by yourself (I mean really, all by yourself – Drawdown is a great quiet time on the Ocoee), and three people wander up dragging Duckies and ask, “So can you tell us the lines?” I made a slow start and got to talking with them. Given that any company is better than none, I asked if they minded if I joined up with them? They were three high-spirited raft guides from the Nantahala that had decided to give the Ocoee a try on their day off. It was a mildly carnage-filled afternoon, but they took it all in stride!
On both runs I heard the dog up on the cliff (somewhere) barking. So, waving goodbye to my newfound raft guide friends, I pulled out below Dixie to see if I could figure out what was going on. By then the rain was moderately heavy, and within 50 yards of mildly upward climbing, I hit vertical rock face, slick from the rain. I couldn’t find a ready way up that wouldn’t in all likelihood result in my imminent demise. No one knowing where I was, and having watched 127 Hours, I gave up. At the takeout I again ran into the raft guides. They had finished up with a great run!
The rain on Monday had everyone speculating Tuesday morning on the probability of a Tellico run. John McDonald had driven up the night before and was camping nearby. With the jury still out, and much back and forth messaging, John and Amy optimistically headed to the Tellico, while David and his group decided to remain on the Ocoee. I had other plans.
I pulled out a couple hundred yards downstream of Dixie Drive. Instead of approaching the dog from the bottom, I had decided to come in from above. I hiked (or climbed) straight up to the flume. Working my way upstream along the flume line (moderately challenging, do not try at home), I came to a point where the ground dropped away to sheer rock face. But from that point I was REALLY close. The dog, somewhere below, could certainly see me, аnd barking his head off, but I couldn’t see him, nor could I see any way to get to him from above either. How in the world?!? So I headed back down.
When I finally pulled out that day, I mentioned the dog to a ranger at the takeout. While he found my story interesting, he clearly had no interest in doing anything. I jokingly suggested that one way I could effect a rescue would be to get myself stuck up there, so the dog would get rescued when they rescued me. He agreed that would probably work, but added that they had no high ropes rescue team immediately available. All he’d be able to do was stand on the highway and use hand signals to show how many hours until the rescue team showed up. Undeterred, I called the local paper to see if I could turn it into a human interest story. No dice there either.
At dinner that evening I caught up with Fast Fred and Josh (a rafting guide Fred has brought over to the dark side). Josh said that the dog had been up there since Saturday, at least four days. That was the first time I realized I didn’t know exactly how long he’d been up there, and that it could have been much longer.
By that evening I’d decided I was going to do something, even if I wasn’t sure what. In discussion with Amy and John, I decided I’d make another rescue attempt early the next morning. Amy and John would take a late start, and we’d meet up around noon. Amy cautioned not to get myself eaten, like a recent story of a man in India who had left his dogs in the house unfed for a long period of time. Greeatttt.
Thunder Rock was quiet that night, with Amy and I the only two in the campground. Amy pointed out later the next day that she could have murdered me in my sleep and no one would have known. Really, Amy is a cheery soul.
The sun had yet to break over the ridge when I started out the next morning. I packed everything I thought I could need, and parked in a pullover spot between Dixie Drive and Accelerator. I waded across with my boat and paddling gear (planning ahead in case the water came up before I was back), and then across again with my backpack and gear. Climbing up just below the dog was worth another shot now that it wasn’t raining. While unsuccessfully trying multiple paths up, the dog started barking again. Redoubling my resolve, I finally managed to get high enough to see the dog! A hound dog, with his head stuck over a small ledge, barking for all he was worth. But from where I was, I couldn’t find a way up that didn’t require scrabbling across at least 10-15 feet of cliff where any error would have … unfortunate consequences.
I backed off and worked my way back up to the flume line on the downstream side. This time I had a better idea where the dog was and worked my way back over below the flume. With some moderate scrabbling, I poked my head over a cliff edge to see the dog only about 20’ below me, barking madly. He at least looked friendly! I was probably not going to be eaten. Thanks Amy.
Now 20’ isn’t really that far in the grand scheme of things, but when you’re perched on the side of a mountain, it sure feels a lot farther. But now I’m close, and not giving up. I lowered my pack over the side of the cliff, tied myself in, and climbed down a convenient tree. While not the initial exuberance to see me that one might hope after scaling down the side of a cliff, some food overcomes the dog’s reluctance, and I’ve got a new friend.
What next? I learned from my “First Descent” clinic taught by Lisa Birkovich and John Zadrozny to never go anywhere you didn’t know how to either: get back to where you were, get back to shore, or know where you were going next. I was fairly sure I could get back up the tree, but not with the dog using the gear I had with me. That left, well, down.
I assessed the resources on hand. If you ever need to know, you can get three bars with Verizon at the flume line. I rearranged gear so I could get to various things while hanging off the side of a mountain. I built a harness for the dog and tied the dog to me. I dropped a line and connected a prusik line (very handy, that CCC Swiftwater Rescue Course) from me to the rope, and lowered myself over the side. My new buddy at this point decided that I was not someone he wanted to know, as going over the cliff was clearly insane (something I was wondering myself actually). However, he didn’t have many choices of other places to go, and as we were tied together, he was along for the ride willing or not. Once the two of us slid over the side, he decided that the best course of action was to stay very still (I suspect considering what his last moments would be like), wedged between me and the cliff. Perfect!
The next “hitch” was about half way down when I hit a knot in my rope. Fortunately I was carrying a second prusik line (again the SWR course: always carry two), and I roped myself over the knot. A bit of excitement as I tried to change everything over with the pack on and the dog in hand with full strain on the rope mind you, but at least I was always roped in. I also then tied myself to the end of the rope, in case I lost track of where I was on the rope. That completed, I continued to work my way down.
The remaining problem was that my rope wasn’t quite long enough. I was at full extension and still couldn’t get my feet under me. I’d known that starting down of course, but it was still one of those “hmm” moments. I started to wonder if I would get to talk with the park ranger after all! There was a ledge only about three feet below me and after that things started to level out (for moderately loose definitions of ’level’). I dug out my Leatherman, which I’d carefully placed in my back pocket, and cut the line.
There are times when you wonder, “Should I do this?” often followed by “Why the heck did I do that!” Thankfully, a quick slide and grab at a passing tree and we were down. My buddy and I clambered the rest of the way to riverside. I undid the harness I’d made, loosely retied the dog (in case he broke free, I didn’t need him hung up somewhere else!), and we hiked back to my boat. By now it was about 10 am, and I started to wonder when the water would show up. I quickly waded across to the other side with the dog, tied him to a tree, and scrambled back across for my boat. After carefully towing the boat back across (no desire to get wet after all of that!) I dragged the boat up to the car and climbed back down for my companion. He and I scrabbled up to roadside. It was then I learned something new.
A big 18-wheeler rig roared past and the dog spazzed out. Despite having done some crazy thing that stranded him on a ledge on the side of a mountain, the dog was still terrified of traffic (not a bad thing all things considered). He almost pulled me down off the side of the road, but I managed to get things back under control. I finally got around to looking at his collar and discovered a name and phone number. I immediately phoned the owner, but the only answer was, “This voice mail box is not configured”. Figures. I decided to load up the dog and try to turn him over to one of the rangers.
While loading my boat, Fast Fred came driving by, and “beeped” in a show of support for my having finally rescued the dog. The dog, terrified of traffic, spazzed out again. I learned then that my decision to only loosely tie the dog was not the best idea. He broke free and took off back towards the river bed! Ack! I took off after him as he dashed back across the river but in my haste, slipped and fell in! He disappeared, back from whence we came. There I stood in the river bed — soaking wet – – the only witness to my success merrily driving away.
I’m calling that a win regardless. I got back to Thunder Rock about 11 and John and Amy were nowhere in sight, but turned up about the time I got myself cleaned up. They’d both gotten stuck in a parking-lot- class traffic jam near the Whitewater Center.
The rest of the week was uneventful by comparison. Paddling that day with Amy and John, Amy tried running Double Trouble backwards, starting a theme. Amy began running most everything backwards, just to make it more exciting. Thursday she added Hells Hole to her list. Amy on running Hells Hole backwards: “It’s like being slapped in the back of the head with a soft, wet pillow.”
Amy and John headed home late Thursday, so Friday I decided to hike up and reclaim the gear I’d left on the side of the mountain. I already had a mild case of poison ivy from the previous attempts, so it’s not like that was a major concern any more. However, once I was up there, looking down over the side of the cliff, I decided that perhaps I didn’t care as much as I did when there was a dog involved. I gave up, and climbed back down. I managed to reach the owner of the dog that evening and he told me the dog had wandered its way home. His response to my story? Dismissive. Oh well, I didn’t do it for the owner anyway.
I ran into Ian Watson at Thunder Rock Friday night and on Saturday we finally disproved the theory that any time an Ian paddled with me he had to swim. By late Saturday I decided to take some time to catch up with family and I headed out.
The poison ivy is mostly gone now. The scratches and rope burn have healed. The come-alongs have (mostly) been pulled off my clothes. The gear is washed and put away. But if I call that rapid, “Hound Dog”, well perhaps now you’ll know why.
Things to say
Well, I’ve never really been a big fan of blogs. Reading or writing. Reading blogs seems more like living life vicariously through others, and I tend to think I’d rather live things myself. And because of that, I tend to think that others probably wouldn’t care much to hear what I have to say, for the same reasons.
But today has been one of those days where, perhaps, I need to write a blog to hear about my own life. Who knows?
I’ve just watched one of the most horrifying movies I’ve ever seen: Touching the Void. It’s a documentary of two friends who climb together, only to try to climb something that no one has ever done, but has been tried, so they think it’s worth the challenge.
It reminds me of other movies I find equally horrifying/fascinating. Yesterday, while transcoding some of my old VHS tapes to mpg, I stumbled across something I recorded years ago from the TV about 4 Olympic-caliber kayakers who attempted to descend a section of the Tsang Po River that had never been run before, and chronicles what was, in effect, their failure. (The second attempt is documented as well).
Then there’s The Same River Twice (2003) and a very similar movie Same River Twice (1996) which the author of one insists that while he’d heard of the other one, he’d never seen it. The first (fiction) chroniclers a group of friends who return to a river they used to guide on in their youth, and how they come to terms with events form their past. The second is a documentary about the lives of a group of friends who take a month-long trip down the Colorado.
Open Water would be another of those stories, the story of two divers who are with a diving group, and then get left behind by accident.
I had Touching the Void recommended to my during my Swift Water kayaking class, along with Into the Wild and Into Thin Air. Touching the Void was just the first one to show up from Netflix.
And now, while writing this and finding the links, I’ve added Deep Water to my queue.
It clearly says something about me that all of these movies touch me deeply.