Still climbing.. Ken takes a short break at Quatay’s village store. Possibly the highest point between San Diego and Phoenix. But he’s not that sure
Ken's Blog
Still climbing
December 6th, 2011On the up
December 6th, 2011Short coffee stop at three thousand or so feet…
Heading for El Paso
December 5th, 2011Close by the Mexican border might be, but crossing close to San Diego leads to pretty much a dead end. The Baja California peninsular. So east towards El Paso. Following the US Adventure Cycling Association’s Southern Tier route.
Over a thousand miles, it’s a journey through coastal mountains, across scrubby desert, sand dunes and past endless cacti. A series of mountain passes to cross, climbing up to over 8,000 feet. Over the Continental Divide, the backbone of North America.
Challenges ahead. Desert winds strong enough to bring progress to an abrupt halt. Terrain affording little cover. Warm days bitter nights. At altitude, always a risk of winter snows.
Sightseeing in San Diego
December 5th, 2011Actually I wasn’t. Sightseeing that is. Get to see quite enough from the handlebars. Time off the road a chance to catch up on domestics, writings and ramblings. And often a chance to chat with fellow travellers. Or at least observe. Endlessly fascinating.
A middle-aged chap whose efforts at flirtation with those less than half his age bordering on the contemptible. But never when his elderly mother, with whom he was travelling, was around. I think she knew.
An English woman. Londoner. Musician. Saxophone, mostly modern jazz. Drawn to hostels to escape the suffocating isolation of bland, lonely motel rooms. And a Swiss long-haul cyclist I rather liked. Chatted with her late into the night. Then the next morning. The reason I was late leaving San Diego. Enjoying her company.
Reduced to pulp
December 5th, 2011
The final push into San Diego, a few days off the road in a small hostel close to the coast, was, at best, turgid. Mostly steady, heavy rain. Icy cold, the only respite the odd hour when it eased back a little to drizzle. It felt warmer but probably wasn’t.
A generously sized cheese and bean burritto had raised spirits a little, bought from a small campground cafe. Even the odd sip of warm coffee did little to improve matters. It was fundamentally a terrible day.
The ride into San Diego should have been relatively short – perhaps forty miles at most. To a carefully chosen hostel, expectation it would be quiet, and conventionally located. And it was. Problem was the cycle route had endless twists and turns, necessitating frequent stops to check the navigation. Quickly reducing my guide book to pulp.
Romanian quick-step
December 5th, 2011I’d not, I explained, actually been to Romania. But I had at least seen the place, across the Danube from Serbia. But Diane, my host for the evening, had visited, studying traditional dance. She’d travelled a good deal with husband Dennis. Had forgotten more Mandarin than I’d ever learnt.
I’d slept on the floor of their study. In the early morning light lying there gazing at a world map covering an entire wall. Pondering. In awe of its physical enormity, struggling to reconcile this with a new sense of smallness. Sometimes I dozed.
Equally intrigued by a couple of familiar works on their bookcase. Pulitzer Prize winner Jared Diamond’s analysis of societal developments across the continents. Third or fourth copy I’d seen in North America.
Skittle alley
December 4th, 2011
South of Santa Monica – part of the sprawling Los Angeles conurbation – Venice Beach. Outdoor gyms for burly bodybuilders. Beach volleyball nets. But, despite the pleasant warmth, quite deserted. Instead, trashy shops stacked with expensive tat. Tourists drifting unpredictably onto the cycle route that wound itself along the beach. Twists and turns.
Spokes on a wheel
December 4th, 2011I’d not meant to startle her. Just asked if her surname was Wilson. It was. How did I know, she’d asked, hastily looking to see if it was on a luggage tag. It wasn’t. Mine was an informed guess. Chance meeting with Ann in the locker room of the hostel in Santa Monica, striking up a conversation before joining her for breakfast. First of the day.
Ann was a fellow long-haul cyclist, had quite a few years on the road under her belt. But it was her tales of Bulgaria that’d aroused my curiosity. Had her bicycle stolen in Sofia. A story I’d heard before, I was sure. Recounted to me by Myles, a fellow Englishman. We’d ridden together from the city towards Turkey.
The previous evening I’d bumped into Aerind – pronounced Avon – with whom I’d camped at Kirk Creek. He’d arrived at the hostel a little ahead of me, his bob-trailer the source of much cursing as I’d struggled to stow my trusty steed in the small cycle store room.
Ann was heading off by bus for a few days, and I’d another breakfast to go to. Off to nearby Santa Monica pier to meet up once more with Esther, my host in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, eighteen months or so earlier. Now living in LA.
Tea party
December 4th, 2011
Yorkshire tea.. in a shop in Santa Monica, Los Angeles. Surprising, not least because I thought we’d stopped them trading with the New World centuries ago…
LA sunset
December 4th, 2011
Smog tends to lend itself to pastel sunsets…
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