Caveman Cycling For Earth

There are people everywhere in Morocco. They have an “outdoor culture”; there is always someone around. If you take a piss on the side of the road, someone is probably watching you. If you are talking to yourself as you pedal down the road, there is probably someone listening. Even before lunchtime, dozens of people look at you as if you were an alien, too shocked to return an “o-aleikum salam.” Sheperds in Adidas gear pause their conversations as you pass; farmers in jilabas twist on their donkey-seats to stare; women in hijabs quickly avert their gaze – but only after you notice them looking at you. And that’s in the rural areas. In a place more frequented by foreigners, like a city, or the Rif mountain roads, the tourist hustle is just a part of life. You can’t take a break without an obtrusive offer of a hotel at a great price, or a flashy guy in a car trying to discover which language you speak, or a cute little kid yelling “Stop!” so he can beg for a stylo or un petit pièce, or a bold restauranteur shoving a menu in your face, or a dumb mute villager approaching you with open palms because, to him, your foreign face means money. (more…)

Regatear. To haggle. One of the big words I learned in Sevilla. “Desde el ferry, Charlie, start haggling even at the ferry to Ceuta,” advised my friend Alberto. I’ve never been good at haggling – in Mexico I figured even if I was getting ripped off, it was still cheap, so I never worked up the guts to talk anyone down. But now, with a long stretch of Africa ahead of me, and a much more highly developed thriftiness than ever before, I figured it was time to learn. (more…)

Sure I had seen the signs, all afternoon: “Carretera cortada por obras.” But a little road consruction site has to be pretty drastic to stop a bicycle from getting past… I had decided, way back in Montejícar , to go for it.

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The trip started around the corner from my friend Lena’s squat, at the public library. It was one of the few times in Catalunya I sensed animosity for speaking in Castellano (regular Spanish)

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The day starts like any other; we pick the slugs off the tent, I run a brush through my pony tail. Breakfast, some stretching and some pushups; a liesurely breaking of camp.
But when we get back on the bike path, it isn’t long before we realize – it’s the first of May, which is a special day for villages all across Bavaria. (more…)

It was Spring in Germany, we had a flat riverside bike path stretching ahead of us, and we were on bikes. Need I say more?
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I recuperated quickly from my nightmare getting to the Steigenberger Airport Hotel, and subsequently passed a night of Cloud Nine luxury. Lily fed me, and I had a badly needed shower. You should’ve seen the water run black from washing my hair! Not to mention my dirty clothes. And there was a bed with snowy white sheets, big enough for my 190 centimeters – and Lily too! In the morning I used her pump to fix my flat tire, and somehow we found a much easier way back to the campsite. Maybe it was because it was during the day, but it probably had more to do with Lily’s superior navigating skills.

Back at camp, I began preparing for a birthday feast the next day. (more…)

We woke up at dawn on a riverside beach – right on the bike path, nobody cared – so Lily could catch a train the rest of the way into Frankfurt to be with her mom, who was stopping through on her way back to Australia. I was to find a campsite outside the city that we could stay at for more than just one night – the plan was to head off for Budapest after my birthday, a few days away.
It was nice to be up early; I pedalled liesurely toward the city. A nice German guy and his dog cycled with me for a bit and kept me on track. Nearing the airport complex – the Frankfurt airport is one of the biggest in Europe – the bike paths actually continued, with signposts even, under and around all the hectic mess of audobon on/off ramps, which is normally an impossible nightmare to bike through. Go German cycle networks!
Then up ahead I saw a pair of loaded bikes coming my way! (more…)

Something had changed in me; I had given myself a taste of hurry and caught a glimpse into the insidious spiral it promised. I began to see into a deeper layer everywhere I went; people looking at their wristwatches at the bus stop, crazy stress at the train stations, traffic jams and impatient tram bells. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure, that hurrying and traveling by bicycle were uncomplimentary, antiprogressive, anathema, opposites, enemies, not meant to be in the same journey. Disagree if you like, but me, I’m livin’ the slow life.
I was still going to Madrid, but this time I’d take it easy, take a jaunt into Germany and pass through Luxembourg, and accord my Spring in France the time it deserved. (more…)