Late evening, long winter shadows and a fast smooth road. Perfect

Usually, when choosing a route for a ‘day one’ ride, I tend to make up a new one.  I do this for a couple of reasons.  First of all it means I do not fall into the trap of trying to ride a familiar route at a pace that I remember from days in the past where I was much fitter – for that makes me feel shit.  To avoid this,  I choose a new route. This is a cunning plan. It serves to (a) ensure it is a memorable return to the bike, buoyed by enthusiasm and a desire to explore and (b) that the next time I ride the route, I will be happily moving along at a faster, fitter rate, well if all goes to plan that is.

My plan was a proven one and was sound.  I had however managed to ruin my plan in several ways.  All of which, could easily be described as ‘rookie’ mistakes.  I shall list them below.

1. riding without money.
2. riding without sufficient food.
3. riding without sufficient liquid.
4. not eating enough for dinner the previous night
5. not eating enough for breakfast.
6. not charging my Garmin GPS unit
7. not checking the map before leaving
8. not bringing a map
9. deciding that ¾ bib shorts would be warm enough
10. not reading the weather forecast.

So there I was, roughly one hour from home and this list was running though my head.  I decided there was only one solution.

Ignore it.

In order to take my mind of the my rapidly numbing feet, my hunger, my thirst and my lack of knowledge of the route, I decided to employ a tactic used to calm myself when I am freediving.

It works like this. It is all about visualization.

Imagine you are trying to hold your breath, sitting on the sofa at home. (do not do it on the metro because people will think you are a freak).

Try it now.  Hold your breath and look at your watch.

At around forty five seconds or so, you’ll start to twitch a bit.  You will be willing the seconds to move faster. If you make it past a minute, as the seconds move towards ninety seconds, you will start to stress.

Now try it this way.

Have a rest after the first test.

Now this time when you hold your breath, close your eyes. Do not look at the watch.

Imagine the house you lived in as a kid.  Try to visualize the layout. Each room. The kitchen. Your bedroom.  The little cupboard with the stickers on it. The bed with the Road Runner cartoon pattern. Your favourite toys. Whatever.

Now think about your high school teacher.  The one you had a crush on.

By this time a minute will easily have passed, without stress.  It works.

Whilst I was thinking about my art teacher and her lovely blue eyes I had missed the turn off for Barcelona and was now happily moving farther and farther away from home.  By the time I had realized my mistake, heading back, into what was now a headwind was not an option.  It meant that as a penalty for thinking about Miss Booth, I now had to climb up over the pass that separated the Valley Orientals, from El Maresme. This was a serious downer.

I began the climb.

It is not a hard climb.  But when you have zero energy it might as well have been Everest. I began to think about food. If only I had some money.

Eureka ! I remembered that I had placed an ‘emergency’ 20 euro note into my saddle bag.  Joy of joys. I was beaming.

I stopped at a  petrol station and filled up.  I started with a Coke.  Some little cakes caught my eye and then an Aquarius (think Gatorade). I finished off with some water for my bottle. Clutching my purchases to my chest I made my way to the counter.  Stopping to stare at a cabinet selling what looked like Christmas themed survival knives (WTF?) and car seat covers with patterns of football teams on them.  Strange.

I was served by an interesting looking guy that seemed to have several hair styles at once upon his head.  He was nodding to a rhythm that only he could hear.  He did not look up from the cash register. He had a tattoo on his neck that looked like a dead bird. I wondered if he had some of the Christmas themed survival knives at home.

“What number” he asked.

I looked at him and said nothing.

After a little while he looked at me and then gazed out at the forecourt. It was empty.

I watched as the realization that I was a cyclist dawned upon him.

I handed over my emergency money and left. Leaving him to listen to the music in his head.

Later that evening, whilst soaking in a hot bath I thought about my ride. It was painful but I enjoyed it.  I decided to plan my next route and made a mental note to avoid my rookie mistakes.

My next ride would take me onto the roads that Juan Antonia Flecha trains on.  I wondered if he ever make rookie mistakes like mine.

Probably not.  But you never know.

Still you do have to get lost if you want to find yourself right?

Watch this space..

I’m excited and I am looking forward to bringing you some interesting articles, photos and videos.

Eduardo

…back to reality. I was cycling with members of the Hunchback Society. Instead of Belgian ales I had two water bottles, filled with an isotonic mixture. I carried an energy gel and several fruit bars in my jersey pocket, along with a mini pump, my wallet and my house keys. My hunchback was impressive.

I had met my companions a few days earlier whilst exploring an area near Sitges, south of Barcelona. I was at the foot of the infamous Rat Penat climb when I noticed a cyclist descending. He was dressed in exactly the same Rapha cycling kit that I had received from my team when in the Friendship Tour of Thailand. Rapha kit is as rare as rocking horse s&*t here in Barcelona. The surprise was mutual. The other rider stopped and stared when he saw me. We were mirror images of each other. Both on black bikes, both dressed head to toe in Rapha pro kit. We both laughed about it later on.

It turned out he was one of the owners of a recently opened shop, located in Hospital LLobregat. He invited me to join him for a BBQ. A group of friends were set to watch the Giro d’Italia live. It was, as they say, a ‘no brainer’. The Rat Penat would have to wait for another day.

A couple of days later I was invited by Marcel on a ride out into an area I had not explored. I was keen to join him and the rest of the hunchbacks so decided to meet them both in town.

members of the hunchback society

The route takes you through beautiful scenery, the smell of pine trees and flowers in blossom combine for a fresh outdoor smell that serve to underline the beauty of the place. It is a pleasure to cycle through an area so devoid of traffic.

Sadly my Garmin GPS was not working and I have no detailed route information for you. However, I shall leave you with some photos and will re-ride the route. It is truly beautiful and, I would have to agree, one of the nicest cycle routes that I have taken in Catalunya thus far.

To celebrate I decided to visit the Belgian ale shop in Gracia and buy a nice triple fermented beer. I shall raise my glass to my fellow hunchbacks.

half way through our ride

I wondered what to say.  ‘Well yes it is hot, and some of the climbs, whilst not long, were quite steep, but it was nice’ – It was all I could come up with.  How do you explain your passion to someone that has no comprehension of it? It would be like trying to describe the colour of a sun-set to someone that was blind but I decided to try to explain it.

I racked my brain for an analogy.  I asked her if she liked to cook.  She nodded her head and casually flicked away a strand of sun-bleached hair that had fallen across her face.  I asked her if she cooked to eat, or if she cooked because she enjoyed it.

‘I love to cook she said, for me it is like an escape from the boring routine of life’. I smiled and she smiled straight back, a beautiful smile that said ‘I get it’.  She looked out to sea and nodded her head, still smiling.  We sat still for a while and watched two young men drag a small boat across the sand bars in the bay.  It was peaceful and we both savored the moment.

Cycling transports you, it lifts your mood and allows you to meet new people, to connect with them even if they are not fellow cyclists. Here I was on a beach making a connection through a passion for cooking, for tasting new spices and creating new dishes.

I had a plane to catch and was sorry to have to leave.  I shook her hand, glanced out to sea and began to trudge back up the beach towards my hotel.  I took one more look back over my shoulder, she was watching me make my way up the beach, she was still smiling and gave a little wave just as the beach bar began to play music.  I was so happy yet sad to leave.  If I could have delayed my flight I would have but Barcelona beckoned and I had left myself just ten minutes to pack up my bicycle before the taxi was due to arrive.

Roll forward a couple of months.

The memories of Thailand have faded slightly and sit behind the fresher memories that occupy my mind.  I have spent the summer travelling, exploring both on motorcycle and by bike.  I have widened my ‘map’ of places to cycle, extending further inland towards Vic and South towards Tarragona  Whilst on my travels I have made new connections, new friends and have picked up a bug for riding a fixed gear bike.  I wondered what grabbed my attention to these sweet, minimalist machines and it hit me one day whilst sipping a coffee.  They are pure.  No gears, no cables hanging all over the place, indeed there is something truly simple about them and, in a way, they reflect my mantra.  Keep it simple.  It is something I am striving for in my approach to life and thus, it is no wonder that a ‘fixie’ appeals.

Barcelona, late afternoon.

Reflections...Barcelona

I will keep you abreast of my latest routes.  In the meantime I leave you with a collection of photos taken on my travels.

Making new friends and going to new places = perfect !

Ride. Share your passion. Connect and make new friends – a simple plan.

'Fixies' in Barcelona

I had booked a hotel in Koh Samui. It was rather appropriately called the ‘Ark’. Which meant I would not have to build one if the torrential rains continued.

I arrived, was shown to my room and decided to grab a beer to celebrate (a) having made it through the Tour of Thailand in one piece and (b) our team mate Sean Smith winning the event.

Curiously the bar was empty. I sat down and choose a chair on a porch over looking the long, gently curving white sandy beach.

‘Sorry sir we demolish bar now.’
‘Pardon?’
‘We remove bar now. We break it’
The Thai guy stood in front of me with a large claw hammer in one hand and what looked like a plastic bucket on his head, which, I think was meant to be a safety helmet
‘Sorry, you mean you are renovating?’
‘No, we remove bar’, ‘ Now you move’ he said, and smiled.
Great. I thought. I check into my hotel and they start to demolish it.
I got up walked down a couple of steps onto the beach, looked left and then right and decided to walk in the direction of some sun beds about fifty meters further down the beach. I could hear some trance music pounding away.
Upon arrival I found what looked like the aftermath of a late night party. People were sprawled out over sun beds in a state of disarray. I wasn’t really ready for this and decided to unpack my bike and go for a ride instead.

I got back to my room to discover the power was off. I stumbled around the pitch black room, located my bike bag and dragged it out onto the terrace.

Mosquitoes. They are the national bird in Thailand and they are ravenous. I built the bike up whilst swatting away at the swarms that were trying to dine on my flesh. And then it started to rain again.

I was going riding, come rain or shine.

Koh Samui is not a large island. The road around it is just over one hundred kilometers in length.

I decided, for no reason, to keep the sea on my left and ride clockwise around it.

It felt good to be cycling again but after five days of racing my legs felt like I’d stolen them from Pinocchio. After an hour or so they magically came to life.

The first climb was short but steep and covered in sand which made standing up impossible.

The descent was covered in sand, which meant a crash was possible.

I was questioning my sanity in choosing to cycle around the island when the first truck, belching out fumes so dense you could have cut them with a knife, overtook me, its tires just inches from my shoulder.

I pulled into a lay by to calm my nerves. It had been a close call. I had almost become a statistic. I decided to take a few photos and relax for a while.

It turned out that my brush with the truck of death was an isolated incident – I had no other problems with blind truck drivers on the island and can recommend circumnavigating Koh Samui by bike if you feel restless.

As I returned to my hotel I came across a white Lamborghini. I stood and stared. Having an Italian super car on the Island of Koh Samui is like being married to Angelina Jolie and declaring yourself celibate.

I found a little restaurant and ordered a Pad Thai, as plainly I wasn’t going to get a Lamborghini. It had already been sold.

I was thinking about the afterlife today on my ride. The traffic was truly amazing. Not amazing in a ‘wow look at that Aston Martin’ kind of way, more of a wow, I wonder how many people ‘check out’ daily on these roads. I imagined a scene with one of the locals turning up at the ‘Pearly Gates’.

Angel with clipboard: -“Name please?”

Soul: Chongbung Ratmanothanburi

Angel with clipboard: Cause of Death?

Soul: – Motorcycle crash.

Angel with clipboard – Describe nature of crash please.

Soul: – I was killed riding with four friends on a motorcycle, whilst carrying a few neon bulbs, some bricks, a small television and some bamboo, and some dried garlic.

Angel with clipboard – Exactly how did you crash?

Soul: – My friend was driving the motorcycle and he tried to send an SMS message to his mother. We drove into a really big truck carrying butane gas canisters, it was coming the other way on the highway.

Angel with clipboard – The truck was driving the wrong way on the highway?

Soul: – No, it was us driving the wrong way on the highway, but we were only driving slowly the other way, so it is ok, no?”

This happens. Today on our ride along the highway, we saw plenty of vehicles driving the wrong way down the motorway, albeit slowly. Bending the rules no? This is Thailand.

Back to this mornings ride. It was ‘interesting’. Interesting in that we avoided becoming a statistic and we managed to find our way back to the hotel. Oh sure, there were a few missed turns and a quick dash across the motorway to get onto the opposite carriageway. We also had a few close encounters with large pot holes so deep you could go caving in them, or fill them with water and rent out jet-skies. But it was ‘interesting’ and hey, it gave me a lot to think about.

Would I ride the same route again? Not even if I were being chased by the four horseman of the apocalypse. Nope. No way. Oh and for anyone that reads the Garmin GPS Link and thinks hey cool I’ll try that route. Please do not. No really I am serious.

Tomorrow is another day. In fact tomorrow is stage one of the Thailand Tour of Friendship. I am looking forward to it – a prologue of 6.8KM. I just hope I do not meet Chongbung Ratmanothanburi on his motorcycle with his buddies coming the other way.

http://ridewithgps.com/trips/232585/embed

Not lost. Just a bit off course.

Whilst I was cycling yesterday along the coast towards Lloret de Mar, in Catalunya, my mind wandered back to Thailand.  I began to smile as I remembered the last cycling trip in what used to be called Siam many moons ago.  When I went it was of course called Thailand.  My  trip took me from the outskirts of Bangkok up to Chiang Mai.  I was leading a cycling training trip for the Hong Kong national junior triathlon squad.  The plan was simple -  ride from Kanchanaburi up to Chiang Mai.

Kanchanaburi is a busy little town, the capital of the province of the same name.  It sits at the point where two rivers merge to form the mighty Mae Kong River. It was made famous in the movie ‘The Bridge Over The River Kwai’ a film that portrayed the horrific experiences of the prisoners of war that worked on the Burma Railway whilst the country was under Japanese control in 1942.

I had organized a small support van, driven by a short, dumpy man, whose name sounded like ‘Bang My Hat’ or ‘Be Right Back’…or something like that. He was an enthusiastic fellow who kept us in constant supply of bananas and assorted fresh fruit as we cycled.

I was sharing a hotel room with the squad’s coach, a friendly Ironman triathlete who had taken the junior squad under her wing.  We were in a two star hotel in a nameless town, two days from Chiang Mai. We were tired.

We decided a leg massage would be a good idea and called the hotel desk to find out if they could organize one for both of us in our room.

I explained that we only wanted a massage, no bells and whistles.  “Yes, Yes, no problem Meester’ the hotel clerk said, in an excited tone.

We lay back on our beds waiting, wondering what the massage girls would look like.  Would they be stereotypical Thai ‘working girls’? I was a little bit nervous.

After about ten minutes there was a knock at the door.  My room-mate went for the door.  When she got near to it I asked her if she could let me have the prettier girl.  My room-mate grinned at me and slowly opened the door.  I could hear muffled voices, some sort of discussion took place and then two women entered the room.

The first woman appeared to be roughly ninety years old.  Her long grey hair was tied back so tightly the skin on her face appeared to be on the verge of tearing.  Good grief I thought.  Please don’t let her be mine. The second girl was standing out of sight behind her.

The next lady was so short I could hardly see her over the height of the bed.  I wondered if she was on her knees for some reason.  She was not.  On tip toe she stood about 1.2 M in height.  If the fan in the room was on, she would have blown away.  She had a pleasant smile.  I could see both of her teeth.  She came over towards my bed and then began to talk to her living fossil of a colleague.

Our hotel room had two single beds.  I was stretched out on one, looking across at my room mate being pounded by her masseur.  Mean while my ‘girl’ was trying to copy everything the older one was doing.  It soon became obvious that she had never given a massage in her life before. I was in trouble.

After a few minutes, I watched as my room mate was told to sit upright.  The million year old lady lay down and then proceeded to arch her subject’s back with her knees, whilst pulling on each arm.  It looked like some sort of medieval torture process.  I could hear her grunting as she resisted having her spine snapped.

Next it was my turn. At sixty four kilograms, I was not particularly heavy, however my shoes weighed more than my massage girl. She was trying to apply the torture move to me.  She lay on my bed and told me to lean back onto her knees.  I did as I was told.  She then took hold of each of my arms, holding them firmly with each of her hands.  She tried to lift me up off the bed and began to pull on my arms. I was looking up at the paint that was peeling off the ceiling.

She had neither the strength, nor the confidence to successfully complete the maneuver and I began to tip to one side. She tried to correct the position but failed.  I was sent tumbling off the bed, narrowly missing the bedside table on my journey to the cigarette stained carpet.

My massage over.  We paid them and then fell about laughing when they left.  I had carpet burn on my elbow and a bruised hip but it was worth it. It was entertainment, for us, and for them.

I snapped out of my trip down memory lane.  It was time to turn around.  The group that I was cycling with had reached the turn around point in Calella. A small beachfront town about 50KM from my home.

The ride out had been into na annoying headwind and the group were happy to have the resulting tailwind now that we had turned around.

I had not eaten any breakfast and was halfway into a 100KM ride.  My mind turned to food whilst I forced a rock hard PowerBar down my throat.

The night before I had eaten Caracoles – snails in a rich sauce of chorizo and red wine and had followed that with a huge plate of Monk fish, known as ‘Rape’ in Spain.

I made a mental list of the items in my fridge and whilst looking out at the bright winter sunlight reflecting off the sea, I decided upon a Red Thai Curry and began to smile again.  I was looking forward to being back in Thailand.

Details of my route out to Calella, Catalunya, Spain, can be found here: http://ridewithgps.com/trips/161872/embed

Luckily for me I did not need to dig my way through a prison wall with a spoon to escape from Barcelona.  I had my bike, my GPS and Google Maps to help me find a suitable escape route.

Barcelona is hemmed in by the sea and by a range of mountains.  They are not alpine in height – most climbs last no more than twenty to thirty minutes.  Crossing over them opens up a vast area to explore.  The other options are to cycle either up (towards France) the coast or down the coast (towards Valencia).  Crossing Barcelona can be easy if you know the best escape routes.  Take the wrong route and you will end up fighting for space on the road with trucks driven by swivel-eyed lunatics, seemingly intent on making you a statistic.

For me, perched up on a steep hillside to the NE of central Barcelona the easiest escape is to climb up over the Collserola and to drop down the other side near Sant Cugat de Valles.  This takes about thirty minutes. This is fine if I feel like stepping out of my door and immediately having to climb.  My apartment sits in the middle of an 18% climb. Thankfully it is short or I would consider moving.

The other escape option for me involves descending to the River Besos. This is a cunning plan. Doing so connects me with a series of cycle paths.  This of course means I avoid the lunatics in trucks and the constant stream of scooters driven by Moto GP wannabees.

At the end of the River Besos, just before it empties into the sea, you arrive next to what is one of the largest  landmarks in Barcelona, or to be more accurate, in the area that borders Sant Adria de Besos with Badalona.  It is a large power station with three tall towers.

From this point you can join a cycle path that runs from the seafront in town, at the Bottom of La Ramblas, near the Passeig de Colon, all the way through Barceloneta, past Port Forum and up the coast towards Mataro.  This is one of my favorite escape routes. For me, it is like being hidden in the back of the prison laundry van and being driven to a private jet loaded with a million unmarked notes, destination  unknown.

Barcelona has almost two hundred kilometers of bike paths.  A link here will take you to a download of a PDF map that shows the entire cycle network.

Link to Map of Barcelona Cycle Paths

My route out of Barcelona took me along the coast for a while, before turning off at Vilassar de Mar in the direction of Argentona. There is nothing particularly compelling about Argentona, unless you have an overwhelming desire to cast your eyes upon a few late gothic churches, one of which was restored by the Catalan architect Josep Puig i Cadafalch.

This was however part of my escape route and served to take me to a pretty climb that take you up and over into the valley of La Roca.

After the fast descent into La Roca, my route took me past lush green fields, towards Montorn de Valles. The place where David Millar launched an attack on his breakaway companions in the 2009 Tour de France.  He rode solo towards the uphill finish on the Montjuic and, despite carnage behind, with many riders crashing on the wet roads, he was caught in sight of the finish.  An epic stage.

My ride was slightly less epic than David’s however, my escape from Barcelona was proving to be a successful one.

As I cycled past the climb where David launched his attack I noticed an old man dragging a sad looking Christmas tree towards a large bin.  It was hard to believe that Christmas had come and gone so quickly.  The sun was shining and the air tasted sweet as I drew in a deep breath.   I concentrated on  settling into a nice rhythm on the bike as I pedaled back home for lunch.

I had been thinking about what to eat and decided to make some grilled fish.  A dish of  Dorado, garlic, coriander, some diced onions, a squeeze of lemon and some fresh parsley. Simple, tasty and a fine reward for my ride. It sure beat Clint Eastwood’s prison food.

Link to my Escape Route :
http://ridewithgps.com/routes/259182/embed

link to Escape from Alcatraz.