Wales: It's what's for dinner

29.9.10


Port Talbot, Wales


I'd like to dedicate this entry to those valiant men and women who have given their lives fighting the good fight: I refer to, of course, the Eternal Struggle 'Gainst Gravity. The road from Fishguard, from which we set off at 10:30 this morning, to Port Talbot, where we are currently resting our dogs, is packed to the brim with hills. If today's journey were some sort of gag gift, it would have to be either sneezing powder made with white hellebore (it causes permanent nose damage- and we saw it in Blarney Castle's Poison Garden the other day after kissing the stone); or good ol' Peanut Brittle, seemingly harmless and delicious from the outside (hey, we're cutting ten miles by taking this country road!) but stuffed with snakes ready to unleash a terrible fright (20% grade? what do I even do?). Indeed, we encountered not one but two separate 20% grades and two dozen or so 14% grade hills, which don't just crest a single rise and then flatten out but rather rise nearly to the heavens then descend so quickly and twistingly you're sure to go straight to Hell. And always twirling, twirling, twirling towards freedom.

Yesterday, we left the ferry and made our way to Phil and Kay's vacation house, encountering our first Superhills of this country. However, we brushed them aside as the neighbor assured us that these hills are an anomaly in Wales, unlike the rest of the land away from the coast. Many times today, those words haunted my mind - when I had my mind still, that is. It was very difficult leaving Phil and Kay's house, since they were extremely kind, friendly, and generous, and they both had diverse interests and amazing taste in music. Phil clearly is a huge audiophile, having been to many concerts and loving the classics just as much as modern music. In my experience, this is one of the rarest lovers of music, especially for someone of more than 50 years of age. Not only did we chat at length about some mutual favorites (Bowie, Radiohead, Pink Floyd), but he compiled a list of twenty artists that we should check out. What we have sampled is outstanding music. We could have spent a longer time there discussing music, taking in the beautiful scenery, and marveling at the Welsh language. But leave their house we did, hoping to cover some major ground en route to England.


The first 20 miles were extremely difficult, leading us to believe the worst was well behind us as we turned onto a busier and flatter road, benefiting from the flatness and the wind. As such, we made excellent time before lunch, where we refilled our inner food pouches again well beyond a comfortable level and took off, trying to save some more distance and stay safe away from the busy roads. However, we learned the same lesson a second time today: the Welsh are crazy; avoid at all cost any Welsh towns that are not on the main roads. Villages are built at angles that make San Francisco look like Kansas City (no offense, Chiefsland). Inhabitants have no regard for any mode of transportation other than motoring, and even that one is rife with danger. We have seen countless signs warning to slow (or "araf" in Welsh) even when going up a steep grade. At one point, a man got out of his van to take a photo of us conquering (or being conquered, depending on how long he had been observing our struggle) a hill. I'm not sure how my salt-stained bike shorts will come out on film, but at least the offensive smell won't carry over. We found this second range of hills to be much worse than the first, lasting a full hour and a half and simply going up and down and up and twisty down and up and up and up and dooooown (careful! sharp turn!) and up and... bug in the eye, but we were ascending so slowly the damn thing must have flown in on its own.


Around 5, we stopped for a grocery run at a Tesco Extra, a superstore that puts Sams Club to shame. We found the prices to be very reasonable, especially compared to Ireland, which we had been hearing from the locals to be the case. Finally, after putting in one last hour of riding, we pulled off to a small town with lots of grass around that looked great for camping, but the mosquitoes and the feeling of trying to get somewhere safe kept us searching for a better place to go. You see, Wales is much more settled than Ireland ever was, which makes camping in the country nearly impossible unless you get to know somebody quickly. And would you have guessed that this is exactly what we did? At the local public house (like a YMCA but with a bar), we met a number of people who were extremely interested in what we were doing. An older man named Hugh invited us to his place just up the [mountain], but of course after he finished his two whiskeys. As we quickly accepted his offer before he could change his mind, we entered the bar and were immediately bought a pint of lager, even though I initially refused with gusto. After our beer (and Hugh's few drinks), we climbed the [mountain] and found ourselves in a nice, warm house with our new friend and his wife Susan. They kept offering us different goods, like garlic salt or onions for our stir fry or a pizza or shepherd's pie or yogurt or even apple pie. We accepted many of these offers. The shower was probably the best I've had in a while, following a full day of heavy sweating and dirty cursing.


Tomorrow we plan to push the final 75 miles to Paul and Deb's house in Weston-Super-Mare, which is in England proper. As such, I think I'll get some much-needed rest so we can get started nice and early tomorrow.

One final note: the Welsh language is the craziest, most absurd series of ff's, ll's, and gwy's. I haven't seen a vowel yet.

Took my chances on a big ferry

28.9.10


The open sea, somewhere between Ireland and Wales (Rosslare Europort and Fishguard)


This morning, at 09:00 GMT, Sean and I boarded a giant ferry headed for the sunny shores of Wales. Actually, our Captain-cum-weatherman informed us that we're heading into a rainy abyss of sorts. Good thing I packed a rain jacket! But too bad I sold it to feed my raging gambling addiction.

Word of advice, if you ever conceive a plan to travel overseas for an extended period of time, make certain that you are free from any and all gambling vices. Like Gloria of Destinos fame, and the subject of "House of the Rising Sun," you, too, will fall victim to the deadly venomous bite of the Juegos Adder if you are not careful. Only you can prevent gambling-related forest fires, and, as you only die once, make it a good, noble death!


Now, all trivial and meaningless advice aside (you must understand, I just had to fit in one Destinos reference), let's return to what is at stake at the moment. Sean and I are currently on the biggest vessel either of us have ever boarded. The waves are fairly high, so the Captain-cum-Star-Trekker was forced to turn on the "stabilizers," whatever that might entail. I hope it has nothing to do with lacing all our food with antidepressants and everything to do with creating a force field using the Captain-cum-Spiritmaster's own life force. How valiant!

Upon our arrival in Wales, Phil and Kay, two friends of Paul and Deb (themselves two good friends of the Gosewisch clan) who are vacationing within minutes of the ferry port, will be taking us in and giving us a place to shower. It has now been too, too, too long (as opposed to the "barely tolerable" status of yesterday) since we last showered. We have crossed some invisible but potent threshold that serves to separate men from beasts, which might explain why people are cowering in fear and offering up their firstborn sons if they just please might be left alone. Frankly, we're running out of room and patience for these toddlers; have you any idea just how many apples you must peel to feed a horde of tots? Dozens wouldn't suffice! These babies are ravenous! We secretly fear for our lives.

Speaking of commentary within travelogues, Sean and I went above deck earlier, where the rough open seas sparked a peculiar thought: Did Magellan and his contemporary travelers keep travelogues of their circumnavigatory journeys? I bet most of those entries must have been occupied by comments such as, "No bread again. Carlos said he found some bread in the bedpans, but he was just playing a trick on me. I think I'll search the shoes again." Or something along these lines: "How many times can a crew mutiny in five hours? I keep telling them I'll turn this ship around if they mutiny one more time, but it only seems to drive them on." And there's always this bit: "Thought I saw a woman today, but Francisco was just wearing the mop on his head. And the smallpox-induced delusions don't help."

In a few days, we'll have time to do a full and proper recap of Ireland, rife with pixx and flavor text galore. Until then, we'll just be sailing toward glory, using some satellite-derived wifi and sipping of the finest Prozac-and-tonics this side of the Mississip' (is that phrase still valid?).

Keep on 'venturin'! You only die once!

The dying days of Ireland

27.9.10



Wexford, County Wexford, Ireland



Today is the final full day in the Emerald Isle - or, as I try to be as detailed and specific as I can at all times, the Land of Lush yet Rocky Cow-and-Sheep-Riddled Hills. We're in a Public Library that stays open throughout lunch, a rare find here but one that serves us very well. I'd love to recap the entire three and a half weeks here, but I wouldn't be able to do it justice in the half hour or so that I have available at the moment. You'll just have to wait another few days until I can get a free two hour block to devote to glorifying this amazing place. For the moment, suffice it to say our time here has been gas, fab, and beyond ledge-bomb status. OK, that last reference was a trifle forced, but the song remains the same (what is this, ill-fitting allusion hour?). Allow this next story to open your eyes to the true beauty of Ireland.

Yesterday, Sean and I were doing some solid riding, for the wind was calm and the hills were gentle enough for this place. Although we were off to a late start due to a field repair of Sean’s rear rack attachment and had to take a prolonged lunch to contact some friends, we were on the verge of covering over 90 km, usually the sign of a successful day of riding. As soon as we passed through the final town we planned to overtake (New Ross, home of the original Irish famine ships and a number of formidable hills), we realized it was pushing half six, the time we have set as our camping cut off (i.e. when we have decided to camp, the time we have chosen to stop riding and begin our search for lodging due to failing light and falling temps). After climbing a mile long hill, we turned down the first side road we came to and found a nice house perched atop its own hill just off the road. Unsure whether the inhabitants of such a fine home would be sympathetic let alone enthusiastic about our camping on their property, we approached rather tentatively. I rang the doorbell, which rang with such a harsh buzzing tone that we grabbed our ears instinctively and awaited what we were nearly certain was going to be complete disappointment. Not only were the grounds very well kept, but it looked as though no one was home for the night. However, within seconds of the blaring bell, an older woman in her 60s appeared at the door, looking ever so kind and beseeching us to tell her what we needed. I stammered out something about how we were cycling around Ireland and were looking for a place to stay for the night, would she be alright with us pitching a tent on her property somewhere. At that moment, our futures hung in the balance, with safety and warmth (and total rest for the day) on one side of her hesitation and utter disappointment and complete rejection (and a despairing continuation of the hill we didn’t quite finish) on the other. But luck and maybe a little something else was on our side, and she led us to a pristine, well kept spot of grass where we were to erect Desert Storm. Here, the grass; there, the tap; and if you need anything else, like hot water for cooking, just let me know. These are the words that any traveller most likes to hear: if you need anything else. However, it sounds too good to be true, no? Of course we couldn’t get anything that we wanted, right? Surely, we wouldn’t be able to get hot water for our couscous; a warm kitchen table at which to dine; a heaping bowl of meringue, strawberries, and cream; a friendly couple ripe with conversation; and a delicious, hot breakfast in the morning. Shirley, you must be joking. Well, if you know me, you know I never joke, and besides, I haven’t gone by Shirley in five months!

Indeed, Patricia and Patty Quinn, as they are known, took us in and kept us warm and entertained, and in the morning they sent us (back down the hill, yes) to their hotel for a breakfast fit for a king (a starving king, no less; or, better, a starving, pregnant king -sort of like Arnold in Junior, I suppose). There was no expectation for any of this special treatment when we arrived, but when you travel with no expectations of any kind, you are often pleasantly surprised.

And if you worry that these people could be murderers or just bad people in general, just remember: you only die once. Take the chance, and you will reap the rewards tenfold.

End of an era/beginning anew

23.9.10

En route to Cork (por autobus)

I realize that in my haste to let the people know of such a momentous occasion (after all, the running of my first bike into the ground has just transpired) I've sidestepped and generally neglected many of the principal points of web blog protocol, or really all codes of storytelling in general. That is, I have not properly introduced myself, and forget about the intricate setup for the maximum-impact delivery of the punchline. But so it goes, and I will attempt to remedy what bits I can.

I have received a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime sort of opportunity to travel till my heart's content (God willing, it will never be). With the support of Harvard, my alma mater (it's beyond weird referring to it as a completed past action), I've since embarked on a journey, an adventure... a “CycloQuest”™, if you will, to the far ends of the earth. But I have not left home alone; a good – nay, great! – pal and longtime companion on the Canal of mine Sir Sean Gosewisch is accompanying me to glory, achieved whichever way works. I say that because we've quickly discovered that this trip is certainly a mix of ways of life, attitudes, scenery, weather, encounters with people/death, and even modes of transportation (broken bikes can't take you very far). Even a mere three weeks in, we have had to throw out the majority of our expectations as to what it would actually be like traveling through Europe by bike.

The most important lesson we have learned, and the one thing that will continually and perpetually reappear on these pages, is that people are wonderful. “What?!” I can hear you shouting. In reality, if you're even still reading, you are not visibly reacting very much and certainly not shouting. (Editor's note: if you have a mirror handy, sneak a peek at yourself a few times while reading; this can be just as entertaining as what you're studying, at times even more so!) Certainly, I've gone mad. Why, I know quite a few people, and they're all Johnny Rotten Bag of Apples! But I'm unrelenting on this point, as it is true through and through: people are kind, warm, friendly, sociable, and eager to please. I am quickly losing count of the number of times people have helped us in some manner: whether it is something as simple (or complex here in Ireland) as providing directions; or a potentially burdensome deed such as taking us in from a terrible storm, feeding us all kinds of hot food, and letting us shower and spend the night in a warm house (this has happened three times).. When I take trips in the future, it will be mighty difficult to take the kind of vacations I had as a kid, where we would rent out a cabin or a series of hotels and spend very little time interacting with those outside the Vacation Circle.

We've covered over 1000 km so far and endured many bicycle troubles: broken pannier (Sean), broken rack (Sean), destroyed rear wheel (me, ball bearings went), bottom bracket wobble (again with the ball bearings!), and, of course, the whole cracked-handlebar-stem-induced-crash-on-the-mountain thing. I say “endured” as opposed to “suffered” because we haven't really suffered in that way on this trip. In fact, each of those trials has offered some sort of silver lining, as it were, that actually made the trouble better than merely bearable. For instance, my crash resulted in meeting some fine people (including a doctor who loved the terms “just a graze” and “entirely superficial”); Sean's rack made us more handy in making on-the-fly repairs; my rear wheel allowed us to camp in an abandoned college that was perhaps under construction; and my bottom bracket problem led me to talk to a mechanic who brushed us off and warned me to lower my handlebar stem. Isn't that ironic? (Refer to the first post for the missing half of this Alanis Morissette reference)

And, though I'm on a bus right now, I don't feel any remorse for leaving the bike behind for the moment. I realize that this trip is unlike my other two bike trips in the US, where I was not only determined to reach a stated goal (#1: Home in ten days; #2: Seattle in 7 weeks) but moreover to do it completely on my own power. Here in Europe, I have no such destination, and I'm not seeking the special pride of enduring a seemingly impossible journey to its predetermined; in fact, I'm not trying to “endure” at all! Sean and I are taking our time by enjoying the beautiful scenery, cherishing the precious moments we can spend in the company of strangers (especially in the capacity of guests), and relishing every opportunity we have to get at the very marrow of life, or, if you prefer nipple analogies to anything calcified, to suckle the very teat of life. A crucial means to this end is by taking our time in the grocery stores and experiencing every special meal we can, but food is another topic for another session.

For the conclusion of this prequel-type post, I'd like to add that Sean and I have welcomed a new companion to our adventures, and she goes by the name of Midnight Rider. What I mean is that Gitane is no more, as she has given all she has to give. The new mount is sturdy, smooth, and silent, all the better for phase 3 in our Scheme, involving the entire Garda force and ten thousand rolls of toilet paper. Once again, another story for another time.

And if you ever question whether you should do it, whether you have the time or energy or willpower, answer with a resounding yes, for you only die once.

Visualization Aids (for the Hard of Imagining)

That's me. Postcrash, o'course. And that's the bike, also postcrash. I apologize for any spontaneous gagging that my seductive pose may induce; I was not in a good place at the time.


Who is in better shape? Well, unless you think scrap metal is a particularly attractive end to a storied life (and I know there are some of you out there!), I'd say I came out on top. Then again, I still haven't discovered what's causing the rattling in my head every time I vomit [since the crash, vomit fits (vomfits) and hallucinations have become regular occurrences]. Happy travels!



























(To ensure the full effect has been reached)

Down the road, down to the road, down that road again!

22.9.10
Ireland
Killarney: Ring of Kerry

You know that old saying, the one appearing in children's rhymes, which runs something like: "You only live once, and you don't live until you die, and when you die you realize you haven't lived. That's life." That pretty much sums up nothing about today, but might help capture a certain mood that wouldn't otherwise be apparent. The mood is a sense of irony, an ability to see both the wonderful and the terrible in something and keep on going in spite of (or due to) that knowledge.

What happened that made me think of death and its certain inevitability and, at the same time, life and its absurdity? I fell. Riding at 30 km/h, I fell off Gitane and skidded for a few meters before stopping in a heap of mangled bike and bloody Bob. You see, when a bicycle rusts, its components weaken considerably. And when those parts fail, things tend to snap completely off. Consider a parallel but highly related thought, which is that when a bike loses the ability to steer - specifically when the handlebars begin to operate separately from the front wheel -, you loose all sense of control and begin shouting things like, "Holy shit!" and "Oh my God!" Then you crash, and the whole time you know it is coming, like a far-off freight train barreling down the only tracks around, upon which you happen to be standing - or, rather, to which you happen to be bound by collar and chain. Simultaneously, however, it is both a terrifying and funny feeling, one that you could almost laugh at in the moment (if you weren't screaming, that is). I mean, it must have looked very amusing, seeing, as my dad had put it, someone surfing on his bike down a mountain road in Ireland. I was surprised to learn that Ireland has a booming surfing community, but I had no clue anyone took it to the streets. And the moment after the crash - once I jumped to my feet and continued walking briskly down the mountain, determined to get where I was going - I felt my chest swelling with elation and my mind with utter giddiness. I had just survived a crash in a foreign country, and I didn't care that my bike was in three pieces! I was free from that deathtrap, finally rid of my albatross (thanks, Sammy C.).

And the silver lining? Surely, just being elated does not equate to the antithesis of death, even though the momentary rush of pleasure at being alive was overpowering and intoxicating. No, the blackberry of this thornbush, to convert a popular saying to Irish and turn it on its head, is that we had a wonderful day in spite of (or due to) the crash: a lovely lady named not Rita but Sabina picked us up in her van a mere 5 minutes postcrash and brought us into her town, Kenmare. She and her partner, Andrew, took care of us throughout the day, immediately carting us to the doctor, then bringing us to the market for dinner supplies, next to the bike shop where the poor selection of bikes made me turn down all offers to the chagrin of the salesman, and finally around part of the Ring and to their home. It was a wonderful time spending the day with two genuine people who clearly love life.

But the true silver lining is that we heard Alanis Morissette's "Ironic" on the way home, citing the good advice that [I] just didn't take (and who would've thought, it figured?), no doubt prophesying 14 years ago the words of the bikesmith cautioning me aout my handlebars being set too high. But it was all worth it, in the End.