Caveman Cycling For Earth

Amsterdam wasn’t just coffeeshops and bikes to me. For me, Amsterdam was where I felt like I really joined the Revolution.

This revolution – it’s not in the history books yet, but (more…)

I stood saying goodbye on the windblasted deck, as the engines sluggishly turned over and began to push us out to sea. The railing vibrated gently as the gulf between the ship and the dock became wider. I was leaving a piece of myself behind; cutting off and pushing away. Committing another sad sayonara.
A dull melancholy sank itself upon me, as the lighthouse slipped farther and farther away. I’ve always loved Ireland, but never really knew anything about it. Now I’ve got a reason to love it, and it wasn’t easy leaving.
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I heard they were building a motorway through an important historical site, the Hill of Tara, the seat of the ancient Irish Kings, just northwest of Dublin. I also heard there was a group of protesters camped up there doing an ongoing solidarity vigil and keeping a sacred fire going. I thought, “Now that sounds like my kind of place,” (more…)

By the time I was ready to get back on the road, Dawn was ready to come with me! I tried telling her how tough it would be, how cold and how wet… what an introduction to bike touring: winter in Ireland. (more…)

The rain did not improve. If anything, it was more frequent in Ireland. I’m pretty used to it by now, but it’s not all that comfortable. Campsites are soaked; wet ground, wet wood. I’d get done with a day of cycling, set up camp, and all I’d want is a hot cup of tea, a sweet steaming mug to take off the chill and sooth my aching muscles… but everything is so wet that it takes me forty-five mintues to start a fire with a tea candle and a windblock. Taking breaks in the pouring rain. Wishing I could take a photograph in the rain. I rued the day I gave up my little campstove for its weight – just for that cup of tea, aah. (more…)

The rain really started to fall when I arrived in Wales. The old fellas on the stoop don’t seem to notice, though, unless there’s a tourist there to joke with. “Fine Welsh weather,” was always my response: “Why would I come to Wales to see sunny weather? That’s not the real Wales, now is it?” And the misty summer rain, rolling like folds of grey wool over the hilltops, really was a fine sight to see. The dripping branches and sodden moss of the forest was a magical product of such a wet environment. Rainy weather – it’s just something you have to get used to. (more…)

I left Windsworth on a Tuesday afternoon, after packing up, accepting Caroline’s offer of a cantelope, Nairn’s organic oat n fruit biscuits, and organic peanut butter to take away, and helping with the sheep one last time. The sun was shining, and the local Cornish metaphysical weather forecast called for heat and security. (more…)

After my sojourn into the Ocala National Forest, I gratefully got back in the saddle and pedalled, free & easy, down Hwy.19, which goes through the same palm savannahs I’d walked the day before, cutting through the middle of the immense forest. It was an interesting change in perspective – the wilderness looks different from the roadside; less dangerous, less foreboding, but also less mystical. Just less. True nature can only be seen from the inside. (more…)

I sat there, in front of a small campfire just off the road in Northern Florida, beating the crap out of myself mentally. I seared my eyes in that fire, as darkness pressed in on all sides. (more…)

SOUTH CAROLINA
In Myrtle Beach, South Carolina(a super affluent area), I was sitting outside the public library having lunch, when a grey-haired woman in running spandex stopped to talk. She asked the usual questions about my bike tour, and then asked one I’d never heard before: “How are you doing physically?” (more…)