It is a Pavlovian response. The moment my feet hit the pedals and my legs start pumping … I want a cup of coffee and a treat. No wonder I am a world-class bicycle lingerer.
Donuts. Pastries. Cookies. Fudge. Croissants. Scones. If I didn’t ride a bicycle, I’d probably tip the scales at 600 lbs.
But that need also makes me a better traveler. It forces me to take more breaks and spend more time observing. Watching kids share a bubble tea in Thailand. Witnessing an old Turkish man place a sugar cube on his tongue before drinking his already sweetened coffee. Or, as in the photo above, watching men take a break from working on their coffee plantation in a cafe in rural Colombia.
These little moments stack the shelves of my collective travel memory. And the more I think of it, maybe it’s not the sweets that I’m addicted to, but the sweet encounters.
I truly feel sorry for people who have only observed the world from the seat of a speeding car. It all becomes a blur … literally.
The pace of bicycle travel suites me. But even pedaling can propel you too quickly through your surroundings. To experience the intense beauty of nature, sometimes you’ve got to get off your bike and wallow in it.
While cycling around Crater Lake, my buddy Thomas and I came upon a huge field of dirt and rocks.
At least from a speeding car that’s all you’d have seen. Especially after the grand scenic views of the lake. But at bicycle speed you could still have missed the beauty. Just some flashes of color.
It wasn’t until I got off my bike and onto my belly (I was already sweaty and dirty, anyway) that I experienced the beauty of this place. Among the dirt and rocks were thousands of tiny wildflowers. Little explosions of color. In this mountain climate the flowers were tiny, most barely reaching more than a couple of inches above the dry earth. Yet up close their beauty rivaled that of anything we’d encountered on our trip.
While some prefer fast and furious … I prefer low and slow.
The world has gone digital. Albums became CDs, which became MP3s. Books have been digitized. Even mine has. Many cyclists prefer to use their GPS than having to carry paper maps.
But just as I love the look of an album cover and the smell of a printed book, I adore maps. Physical maps. Maps that fold and sometimes tear. Maps that wear the dirt and grease smudges of adventurous travels. Maps of places I dream to travel that I can pin up on my wall. Every trip I’ve ever taken has begun with my gazing at a map.
But of all the maps I have (and I have boxes full of them), I do have a favorite. It is no bigger than three by four inches. It was drawn for me by a man I met on the road in South Africa. He was trying to describe which route I should take. I kept getting confused with his instructions. He pointed to my small notebook and asked for a pen.
After a couple of minutes he handed it back to me. A little piece of art with the information I needed. There was me on my bike, the town I should sleep in, and the way to the Tugela Valley.
But that was many years ago. Today, no matter where I travel, a local is more likely to pull me inside to their computer and bring up Google maps than to draw one in my notebook. That’s pretty amazing.
I live in the insanely beautiful Pacific Northwest. Due to our cloudy skies and somewhat damp weather (even in July), the color pallet can be quite muted — dark greens, blues, and greys.
So when I travel, I am drawn to the opposite. The rich and vibrant, almost electric colors that you will find on the houses in Cuba, in the shops in Bangkok, and in the markets in India.
The photo above was taken in a small mountain town in Colombia. We were looking for a place to park our bikes at the guest house and stumbled across this scene. It looked as if a cement truck filled with paint had backed up and unleashed a river of pigment.
The simple household items — brooms, dustpan, and hose — were elevated to art on this wall. The already bright blue hose was now painfully blue in contrast to its backdrop. The brooms appeared to have magical qualities. Perhaps we could ride them out of town instead of our bikes? The red spattered drain suggested that fresh paint was sprayed on nightly (probably with the bright blue hose) after everyone was asleep.
If I close my eyes I have a hard time remembering what the rest of the guest house looked like, or even the town. But I will always remember the wall.
We always talk about bicycle travel. But what about bicycle lingering?
Bicycle lingering is that ability to stop forward motion, pause, and soak up what is around you.
Cafes. Ice cream parlors. Roadside restaurants. City parks. Riverside picnic tables. They all call out for you to park your bike and linger.
I am amazed at how many bike travelers hop on their bikes for a day’s ride and rarely stop. Sure, they might stop to fix a flat or to take off a jacket, or to pause to look at their map. But “lingering” isn’t in their vocabulary. They zoom to their next destination and check into a hotel or campsite.
What’s the hurry? As far as I know there is no podium to stand on at the end of a day of bike travel.
Unlike a bicycle race, I believe it is more likely for the participant who arrives last at the end of a day’s ride, to have reaped the most rewards.
Learn the art of lingering and you will be a better traveler for it.
Thirty years ago I left Seaside, Oregon with my buddy Thomas to cycle across America. July 2, 1981. Almost 11,000 days have passed since we dipped our rear tires in the Pacific Ocean. Hard to believe. In some ways it really does feel like it was yesterday.
In this photo we are wearing gym shorts, cotton t-shirts, and no sun screen.
The shirts are matching. On the back is printed, “East Coast or Bust!” Our friend had them printed up for us. But due to an unfortunate choice of font, they read to most people as “Easy Coasy or Busy!”
We had meant to train … but didn’t. We had an extremely limited budget. I had a total of $400, most of which I’d attained by selling my ’64 Pontiac Tempest. We had purchased these incredibly cheap tires and learned that “you get what you pay for” when they wore out within the first five hundred miles.
In our panniers were cotton sweats, cotton sweatshirts, cotton socks, and no rain gear. We had the first set of maps (that’s all we could afford) from Bikecentennial (now the Adventure Cycling Association).
Many people would say we were ill-prepared, and they’d be right. Perhaps we should have postponed our trip. Waited until we got our gear and plans and routes just right. But then maybe that delay would have led to more delay and changes of life and finally apathy toward the dream trip.
And thirty years later I would be thinking, “What if I’d …?”
But we did. I did. And I have been forever grateful for it.
Happy Anniversary to everyone who has ever begun a trip of a lifetime.
We passed the sign above on our trip in Portugal. It was the entrance to a big highway … not a road we wanted to travel on anyway.
I particularly enjoy the way the wheel on the wagon makes the sign look like a cartoon figure sticking its tongue out at you.
But signs are important. They give instruction and information. They warn you not to proceed, or they lead the way.
Which is why I’m excited about the U.S. Bicycle Route System. Signed routes all across our nation that will announce: “Cycling is a viable travel option.”
In 1976 the founding members of Bikecentenial (now the Adventure Cycling Association) established a bike route across the country and invited the nation to come along for the ride. Without that defined route, many people would never have pedaled across America.
When the U.S. Bike Route System is complete, people will have positive reminders that bicycle travel is possible in every state. Seeds of bicycle travel dreams and possibilities will germinate in the minds of passing motorists, bus passengers, and cyclists alike.
But dreams take a lot of work. The logistics of creating this nationwide network are mind boggling. If you are as excited about this project as I am, the first thing you can do is donate. I have. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Small amounts add up fast.
Get in on the ground level of a dream. Donate ten bucks. Ten years from now you’ll realize you were part of something really incredible.
If I had to choose one photo I’ve taken that captures the view of the world you get when you travel by bicycle, this is it.
Up close and intense.
It’s 1995. Nelson Mandela has been president for less than a year. I’m on a five-month bike trip in South Africa, where I’m told by dozens, no, hundreds of people that if I travel in the former homelands that I’m a dead man. Period.
I go anyway. I’m afraid.
I come across a school. Someone notices the bike traveler and a mob of students comes charging down the hill.
My first reaction is to flee. But instead of taunts and shouts of anger, I hear laughter.
The kids surround my bicycle and I take out my camera and snap a few shots.
I look back at this photo and wonder about the lives of these students, now adults in their late twenties. I look at the smiles. The intensity and zeal. I hope that life has treated them well.
None of them knows the gift they gave to this traveler that day. The anxiety that had been welling up in me for weeks melted away in an instant. I continued my journey with their smiles etched in my memory … a potent remedy to prejudice and fear.
A policeman stopped our progress through the small town of Manteigas, Portugal. There was no traffic — no apparent accident or emergency. We parked our bikes and waited.
We heard the music of a marching band long before the processional turned a corner and came into view. It appeared as if the entire town was decked out in ceremonial garb — women with bright green shoulder capes — young boys and girls in white and cream robes. Old men with bright red vestments, marched with tall narrow banners attached polls.
Then came the band. Young and old with their shiny instruments and coats with brass buttons and gold rimmed caps. They played somber tunes. No smiles or waves. This processional was in honor of the martyr Saint Sebastian.
I was wishing this crowd would get a move on. We needed to find a place to stay and it was quickly getting late.
But then I began looking closely at the faces that passed by and my anxiety melted away. How long has that man played the tuba in this band? I wonder what the flute player does for a living? Does the band practice weeknights? To they enjoy it? Whose cap is that little kid wearing?
What’s it like to grow up in a little village in the mountains in Portugal? How many feet have walked these cobblestones? Is someone actually pulling the rope on the church bell, or is it automated?
My mind pleasantly wandered as the music played on. And by the time the band had disappeared up the hill, I found that I liked this town. I had a connection to it, however small.
The phrase might sound trite and overused, but standing at the edge of Crater Lake in Oregon will “take your breath away.”
For most visitors — who arrive and travel around the lake in a car or motor home — that phrase refers solely to the beauty of this national treasure. But for a much smaller and more fortunate group of travelers, the phrase will also relate to their lung capacity.
Crater Lake is along one of the Adventure Cycling Association’s newest routes, the Sierra Cascades Bicycle Route, which takes cyclists on a stunningly beautiful, roller-coaster ride from the Canadian border to Mexican border. You can tackle it all in one swoop, or break it up into a series of smaller trips.
But however you do it, when you get to Crater Lake … do the loop (also known as the Rim Drive).
Many bike travelers pass on it. They have been climbing mountain passes for weeks and the thought of a hilly, 33-mile side trip is daunting. The elevation profile looks like a silhouette of the Alps.
But resist the urge to skip it and move on. Take a day off if you need to. Find someone in the campground who will look after your gear and do the ride sans pannier or trailer. Then pedal one of the most scenic roads in America. Folks may tell you the loop is best traveled in a clockwise direction. That advice is probably coming from visitors driving large motor homes, who can more easily pull into parking lots at scenic overlooks by traveling in this direction.
But you’ll be on a bike. You don’t need a large parking lot. So buck the trend and cycle counter-clockwise around this jewel. You’ll have less traffic on your side of the road, and better light to snap photos like the one above.
It is a Pavlovian response. The moment my feet hit the pedals and my legs start pumping … I want a cup of coffee and a treat. No wonder I am a world-class bicycle lingerer.
