Bay of Pigs

It's Sunday afternoon. I'm sitting in the lobby of the Bello Caribe Hotel, about 15 miles outside of downtown Havana. It took about an hour to find this place. The cabby had no idea how to get here. None of the pedestrians along the way did either. It's a nondescript property tucked into the modest neighborhood of Miramar.

Upon my arrival, I was met in the lobby by Jeff and Daniel, the Proactive Sports Tours agents that I had been communicating with the past couple of months. They seemed tense, quite different than the way I was feeling after a week of challenging exercise, enjoying the beauty of this exquisite island and bonding with new friends with whom I shared an exhilarating adventure tour.

Jeff had just been told that the hotel was overbooked by ten rooms and that part of our group would need to sleep elsewhere for the first night. Not a good message when 103 Northeastern administrators, coaches, student-athletes and family members were about to arrive.

When I went up to my room, the TV was blaring, the beds were unmade, and there was smoke billowing about. A staff member was sitting in the chair, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a look of surprise on his face. I turned and went back down to the front desk to swap rooms. Jeff couldn't believe the mixup. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I think for my benefit, he declared to Daniel and to the clerk that he wanted to inspect all 50+ of our booked rooms. I almost told told him to take a deep breath. Instead I merely uttered, "Don't worry Jeff. We're in Cuba. It's all good."

I've always hated goodbyes and this morning was no exception. After having breakfast with the early risers, I shook a few hands, exchanged a couple of hugs, promised to stay in touch and made my way to the door. I've learned that a quick exit is best for me in these situations.

I ventured out to explore Old Havana. I wandered off the beaten path, meandering down back alleys, stopping to soak in the neighborhoods and to take a few photos. I eventually made my way to the San Jose Warehouse in hopes of picking up a couple of a Christmas gifts. I didn't last long. The place was overwhelming. I dislike shopping in normal times. With hundreds of artisan shops and people accosting me at every turn, I left. As always, the shopping could wait.

Last night we had dinner at the San Christobal Paladar, a restaurant a couple of miles from our Havana hotel. We were seated in the same private room where President Obama and his family ate a few months ago during their historic visit. Some tourists came through wanting to take photographs. Back in the states we might have resisted, but here, in our post-trip calm, it was the opposite. We welcomed all comers.

We ended the day in the hotel lobby listening to live music. It was a fun way to wind down. We had a final drink, chatted and even sang a bit.

Earlier in the day we had completed our final few days of biking in paradise. 150 more miles of riding through farm land and coastal roads, from Trinidad to Cienfuegos and the Bay of Pigs. We rode by mango groves, onion and rice fields, banana and coffee plantations, avocados, sugar cain and more. I couldn't have been happier.

Dan, our tour operator, has developed relationships with many Cuban families over the years. We've stopped at places we otherwise would never have found it it weren't for these relationships. Thursday's lunch was a couple of hundred meters off the road at a private residence where we were served charcoal-smoked lobster, red snapper, plantains, rice and expresso. I'm not much of a sea foodie but this was good. Really good.

Friday's ride ended at a beach club about ten miles south of the Bay of Pigs where we swam, sunbathed, ate and nursed Pena Coladas. It was a relaxing way to spend a couple of hours after a challenging stretch of riding.

I had ridden particularly hard Friday, wanting to see how much I could push myself for a sustained period of time. I searched for that optimized state, starting by pedaling to the point of quick, gasping breaths. I then backed it off just enough to regain long, deep ones. From there It was all quads and hamstrings. I stayed in that zone for many miles, tackling hills and flying through strait-aways. It might have been my best biking ever.

There were times this week when Katrina and I, and sometimes Marc, rode together and it got competitive. Katrina, a part-time yoga instructor is sneaky fit, able to maintain speed for long stretches. She is also crazy fast on the downhills. Fearless. My strength is the uphills. There are enough of them here to give me the edge. We brought out the best in each other.

When we checked into our hotel in Cienfuegos I was able to get a fleeting wifi signal. I received a Facebook message from a colleague of 25 years ago. Seeing that I was in Cuba, he alterted me to the fact that another colleague had sailed to the same town and was there for the night. Amazing. I took an early morning stroll to the Marina next door and low and behold the Dockmater's log showed that he was there. Unfortunately, his boat was anchored 250 feet offshore and I could see no movement on his deck. It was too early. So I wrote him a note. I would have loved to have caught up with him. A real shame.

Today I surpassed my goal of riding 7,500 miles this year. To honor the moment, Susan, Taz and Katrina emptied their water bottles on me, much like football coaches get drenched with Gatorade after winning big games. A proud moment shared with new friends. Thanks guys.

The following won't mean anything to most of you. However, to people like my cousin Michael, it will sound heavenly. Thursday Dan allowed me to ride the first 20 miles on his mountain bike. It's 2015 carbon fiber Rocky Mountain Thuderbolt MSL 799. It's XTR-DL2 equipped with hydraulic disk brakes, electronic shifters, a Rockshock Reverb dropper post, full suspension and tubeless. It's a $10K mechanical purring marvel. I loved every second of it.

After enjoying the beach club on Friday, we boarded the bus for the three hour ride back to Havana. Along the way we past through the Bay of Pigs. Jose provided a terrific history lesson of Cuba in the fifties under Batista, the revolution under Fidel, the repatriation of land and the fleeing of 1.5 million middle class Cubans to Miami and beyond. Jose's lecture provided a detailed account of the CIA backed Cuban exiles bungled invasion, the rise of Fidel as a national hero, leading into the Cuban missile crisis in October of 1962. Fascinating stuff.

Jose then loaded the 60-minute documentary "Peak Oil" into the VCR. It focused on how Cuba survived the economic crisis after the USSR left in the late 80's/early 90's. They call it the "special period" around here. The economy suffered a deep free fall and the country did some deep soul-searching and went to tremendous lengths to deal with it. Crisis has a way of forcing you to better yourselves. We could all use some once in awhile.

We meet for a huge group dinner tonight and then a series of events tomorrow. I'm looking forward to the new stage of the trip.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Avenida 51,Havana,Cuba

The Ancon; where the pool is dry and the rooms are wet

I never would have guessed that I would arrive in Cuba a mere two weeks following the death of Fidel Castro. With its history of both revolutionary triumph and widespread oppression, the country is struggling to digest his passing; a little bit of sadness, a sprinkle of joy, lots of uncertainty. People aren't talking about it much but the concern about the future is palpable. It's fascinating to witness.

Our tour continues to be wonderful. What I like about about it is that we've got people with a wide variety of biking abilities and interests but they mix well together. Despite the athletic differences, it all works. Some are fast, some slow and some make lots of stops along the way. It doesn't matter. Whether biking alone or with others, we all meet at prearranged spots along the way for snack breaks and meals.

Because of the intense heat, we start early each day and finish around 1:30. I like to ride additional mileage; one, because I love the daily meditation of it and two, to work off the three big meals, beer, wine and rum we consume each day.

Yesterday I rode 50 miles and today another 40. There were some moderate hills along the way and both days the temperature was in the mid 90's. That kind of riding kicks the crap out of you. I consume gallons of water, lather on sun screen and wear my hat whenever I am off the bike. Margot taught me well.

The last two days we've been staying at the Ancon "Resort" on the southern coast of the Island. It's a tired property, even by Cuban standards. It's of Russian architecture, was built in 1986 and looks just like you would expect, poured concrete and no charm or luxuries.

I'm not a foodie but some in the group are and they are very critical of the Ancon's meal offerings and quality. Today's lunch was supposed to be at the Ancon but a unilateral decision was made to go to a restaurant in Trinidad instead, despite the fact that the Ancon lunch was prepaid.

The sandy beach is beautiful and relaxing. Because we are on a peninsula, I was able to watch last night's sunset and this morning's sunrise over the water. Spectacular!

Unfortunately, for whatever reason, the large swimming pool has been drained. A few of us have leaky air conditioners that have flooded our tile floors. Stan coined a marketing phrase for the place; "The Ancon; where the pool is dry and the rooms are wet." I got a big belly laugh from that.

Monday night, after a late dinner, Taz, Scott, Marc, Katrina and I walked down to and across the bridge to the 24 hour pharmacy. Taz had to repay a debt to a customer who paid for her purchase when she realized that she only had the tourist currency (the CUC) and not the local peso. Pharmacies are one of the few places where everyone is required to pay with the local peso. On the way home, oddly, we walk passed Jose, our tour guide, who was standing by himself on the sidewalk in front of what looked like a random store. He had a guilty look on his face when he saw us. We'll never know what he was up to but it was no good, I'm sure.

A few minutes later, as we passed our bus, I peered in the front window. I didn't realize Javier, our driver, was in there until after startling him he jumped up from the second seat. A woman was in the seat with him. Jose and Javier are doing a terrific job at supporting us. Whatever they do on their own time is not for me to judge.

Tonight, we are heading into Trinidad for dinner and then to listen to some music. I'm told that we can take salsa dance lessons if we want. A couple of rum drinks and just maybe...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Trinidad, Cuba

Most fascinating were his stories about sea kayaking

I left the hotel early this morning in search of a place to watch the sunrise. It was an unsuccessful journey. The only high perch in Sancti Spiritus is the steeple of the church, built in 1680 and situated at the top of a curved street leading down to the bridge and out of town.
I love this church. Its beauty lies in its simplicity. There is nothing complicated or ornate about it. It is painted a rich pastel blue, has a rectangular tower with a clock about three quarters of the way up and is capped by a modest rusty red steeple. So simple yet so elegant. Unfortunately, it is only open from 9-5. Not good for watching sunrises or sunsets.
Instead I went to the bridge down the hill. Though it was overcast and had no view to the east, I still shimmied myself up on the guard wall and watched as the daylight emerged and the town stirred to life. A couple of men came along sweeping the streets with oversized palm brooms. Uniformed children, on foot and on bicycles emerged heading to the school behind the town square. It wasn't long before horse drawn carriages, motorcycles, bikes, taxis, cars and buses started coming through. It was a growing bustle that you would expect to see on a Monday morning throughout the Caribbean.
After breakfast, Katrina and I, joined by Dayan, one of the trip leaders, jumped on our bikes to get a head start. We wanted to ride some extra miles before joining the group at a gas station ten miles outside of town. After linking up with the others, we headed west for a 30 mile round scenic journey to San Jose Del Lago. It was a wonderful ride, past an assortment of different farms, mostly sugar cain.
I rode most of the way back with Steven. Steven is an older Canadian gentleman who worked for years with the indigenous population north of Hudson Bay. You have to be a hearty sole to live up there and that is a fair way to describe Steven. I was mesmerized by his adventure stories. He has trekked in Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand, Nepal, India, Bhutan and beyond. He has cross-country skied all Over Canada. Most fascinating were his stories about sea kayaking around Vancouver Island, up in the the arctic and in the fiords in Greenland. Really amazing stuff.
Having had two hip replacements and having a couple of physical limitations, I'm increasing mindful that my body is not going to serve me too much longer. I can't help but wonder about retirement and experiencing similar adventures before it's too late. Something to think long and hard about.
After returning to the gas station, everyone got back on the bus except Jose (our tour guide) and me. I wanted to ride the ten miles back to the hotel. It was 90 degrees and I could tell that Jose wasn't thrilled about riding further. However, a staff member is required to stay with a client that wants to keep riding. It was his turn to do so. I felt bad about it but not bad enough. I'll make it up to him at gratuity time at the end of the week.
After a quick shower, we met near the town square for a terrific Cuban lunch. I had chicken and rice, vegetables, fried bananas, an expresso and a piece of the bread pudding cake. Wonderful. I tried to resist the Mojito but a gentle nudge from Danny is all it took. Of course it only acted to make me sleepy. I tried to rally by climbing the old rickety stairway to the church steeple. That was fun and had a 360 degree view that was to die for. It didn't dampen by fatigue however, so I headed back to the hotel for a well deserved respite.
In a little while we will meet for an 8 p.m. family style meal at place behind the hotel. It will be another opportunity to share stories, listen to music and maybe, just maybe, attempt a tango lesson. You know, "When in Rome".
Stay warm everyone. I am.




- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Boulevard, Sancti Spíritus, Cuba

Saturday night was wonderful, until I got home that is.

Our eight hour bus ride yesterday to Sancti Spiritus flew by. Eight of us, four bikers and four staff, with bikes in tow, drove in our old Chinese-manufactured bus (with a recently added Russian engine), to meet up with the other four riders in this 500+ year old town. Along the way we passed sugar cane fields, mountains, livestock, people on horses, old American cars, vendors selling cheese, live turkeys and onions and so much more. Our tour guide, a former English professor, lectured us on Cuban history, its economy, culture, government priorities and many challenges. Of course we had lots of questions and he adeptly answered them all.
We made a stop in Santa Clara for a 13-mile bike test ride and a visit to the resting place and museum for Che Guevara. Fascinating. I knew of Che's Motorcycle Diary ride through Argentina and his significant role in the Cuban Revolution but was unfamiliar with his close relationship with Fidel Castro and the extent of his involvement in other parts of Central American politics. Yet another piece of world history that I need to brush up on.
Sancti Spirits reminds me of an old European village; a town square, families mingling about, groups of men nursing drinks at cafe tables, an ancient church, and people feeding pigeons in the park. What is different about it and other towns in Cuba is the wifi hotspots. Because internet access is new to the island, those lucky enough to own smart phones gather around these hotspots to Skype family members abroad, surf for updates, text and email. It feels like a modern day version of a town crier, people gathering around to learn of and share in the news of afar.
Last night we had our official kickoff dinner. I'm with a great group of people. As is usually the case with these organized trips, the folks love to explore, are fond of adventure, enjoy meeting new people and easily forgive the many trip details that often go awry. The group is made up of a neo-natal pharmacologist, a journalist, a major metropolitan newspaper editor, an industrial engineer, a movie set designer and two retirees. The dinner conversation was full of interesting stories, laughter and lots of beer and wine.
Saturday night was wonderful, until I got home that is. Then it got a little awkward. Nothing too bad. Just an uncertain dynamic with the eighty-something year old woman; my host for the night. More on that in a minute.
Earlier, I had walked along the beach back from the "internet hotel" in the dark and the light rain. An occasional car whizzed by, conveniently spotlighting the path leading back to the main road and the Italian restaurant that was recommended to me at the hotel. It took me about 20 minutes to get there. I was wetter then I would have preferred to be while dining but given my excitement for being there, it was easy to brush it off.
I had told the person at the hotel that I wanted to eat Cuban food and he assured me that the Italian restaurant served great local cuisine too. Unfortunately, that was untrue. There wasn't a single Cuban dish on the menu. I ordered the pasta which was terrific. It was mixed with pesto, garlic, some other herbs and topped in olive oil. Accompanied by fresh local bread, it was perfect. I ordered a Cuban beer and nursed it as I people-watched and listened to a Mariachi band serenade other diners. I was a tired but relaxed and contented and so happy to be there.
When I got back to my place, the awkwardness started immediately. My host, who lives by herself, had been waiting up for me. I was anxious to take a shower and go to bed but she motioned for me to sit down at the kitchen table. She then brought out some forms and repeated, passporte, passporte. I started to protest wanting to wait til morning. But she would have none of it.
The forms were in Spanish and I could decipher only a few words. She stood behind me getting a little too close. She then put her hand on my shoulder. Maybe it was innocent. I couldn't be sure. It seemed as if she giggled a little too often, as if trying to impress. Oh dear! As she looked at my passport she kept repeating "Massachoooseeets." When she did she let out a big laugh. "Massachoooseeets, hahahahah. Massachoooseeets, hahahahah."
After filling out what I could, I put my hands together and laid my hands on them, signaling I was going to bed. She got the message, thankfully. I expressed my gratitude, went into my room and locked the door. Phew!
In the morning it was as if nothing had happened. She served me a wonderful breakfast of ham, fresh fruit and coffee. A great way to start the day.
Today, Monday, the group will meet in the lobby for breakfast at 7 a.m. After that we begin biking in earnest. I can't wait.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Sancti Spíritus, Cuba

Nothing went as planned. It was wonderful.

I can't remember the last time I was this excited. After all these years, I've finally made it to Cuba. Starting Monday, I will be biking the central part of the island with seven others, four Americans and three Canadians. I've never met any of them. All I know is they range in age from 46 to 73.
On the 18th I return to Havana to meet up with a large contingent of Northeastern student-athletes, coaches, administrators and parents. Our baseball and volleyball squads will be competing against local university teams and participating in a series of cultural exchange events. We will return to the states on the 23rd, plenty of time for me to do my Christmas shopping the next day.
This morning, back in Newton, my 3:30 a.m. wake-up call came earlier than expected. I thought it unwise to bring my Apple Watch to Cuba so I got out my trusty old Timex Ironman instead. One problem, I hadn't used the Ironman in awhile so it was set to Eastern Standard time. So instead of 3:30, the alarm went off at 2:30. I lied there for awhile, my mind racing. I began wondering if I had overpacked, if I had made a mistake not purchasing extra medical insurance and whether I should have abandoned my staff during a couple of critical work projects.
Enough of that. After a few minutes of snuggling, I whispered a few things into Margot's ear, hopped out of bed, made a quick pitstop in the bathroom, wolfed down a bowl of yogurt and called for an Uber.
Five minutes later, I was chatting with Merouane in his Toyota Camry, on our way to Logan. The thermostat read 19 degrees. I was Merouane's pivot ride, his first "morning passenger" of the night/day. Until then he had been taking evening revelers home, many of whom had gone out following their company holiday parties. Merouane and I laughed as we wondered how the the partiers would explain their regretful behavior when they return to work on Monday.
After a four hour layover in Newark, the United Airlines flight departed on-time and arrived in Havana at 2:45 p.m., right on schedule. Over the next five hours nothing else went as planned and it was wonderful. I was so happy to be there that the disorganization and slow pace didn't bother me a bit.
On the plane I sat next to an American woman, Emily, who had been living in London for the past ten years. Emily's plan was to link up with a friend (who was flying in from Miami) at the airport, head into the center city for the night and then travel the island for a week. Unfortunately, when we got to the terminal, her friend was nowhere to be found. My arranged driver was missing in action too. We spent nearly an hour searching, texting (at a dollar a text) and calling. No luck.
Though our accommodations were far apart, we finally decided to share a cab. On our way the driver pointed out Raul Castro, who was sitting in the black sedan just in front of us. Pretty amazing. Earlier in the week I was watching him on TV eulogizing his brother and now there he was, driving down the street just like any other Cuban citizen. Amazing.
I was dropped off first, which I immediately regretted. I worried about Emily being alone with a stranger for a long time in search of her Airbnb. I really hope to hear from her. I want to know that she made it to her place OK and that she was able to find her friend.
My place was tucked into a nondescript neighborhood. Unfortunately, after lugging my hefty bag up three floors, I was greeted with surprise by the people in the private apartment. Through our language struggles, it became clear that they weren't expecting me, even though I had pre-paid the room. It was quite comical, them serving me coffee and me showing them photos of their apartment. I was in the correct place. Somehow however, the booking agent had screwed up and never communicated it to the apartment owners.
As luck would have it, the elderly woman across the hall, who had witnessed the commotion, had an empty room. The room had a bed, a pillow, a roof and running water. What more did I need. I took it.
I am now in the lobby of a hotel about a mile down the road. It's the only place with internet in the area. I'll probably get a quick bite to eat on the way back and then head to bed. I've got an early start. I need to meet up with the bike outfit to begin the 300 kilometer drive to Trinidad where we will start next day. I can't wait.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Havana, Cuba

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday and Monday

Thursday, April 7th
Random observations as I wait for the airport shuttle to arrive;

This morning I saw a man wearing a shirt that said "More Respect, Less Attack". I'd like to nominate him for President.

A young boy on crutches; in the states, he spends four weeks in a cast. In the mountains of Nepal, he's hobbled for life.

I saw someone smoking a cigarette while riding a motorcycle yesterday. Are cigarettes that addictive?

They must use different kinds shock absorbers over here. American vehicles could not possibly operate on these roads.

I learned early on to extend a loose fist to welcoming village children rather than an open hand. A firm grip from any sized person can pull you off your bike.

I frequently see young boys walking arm in arm in Nepal. Nice.

Where is the foreign aid? These people needs the world's help. Don't other countries know there was a 7.9 earthquake over here that killed 9,000 people and injured 21,000?

If Coca Cola can assemble a countywide distribution network in Nepal, why can't it be done for health care and earthquake reparation?

The women seem to do all of the hard work in this country. They lug huge weights (water, wood, straw) up steep hills on their backs, they toil the soy fields most days, they herd goats and much more. The men sit and watch. What's up with that?

A goat darts into the busy road. A baby does the same. A motorcycle with a infant sitting on the gas tank and a toddler hanging on in the back. No one is wearing a helmet. Such is life in Nepal.

A driver lying under a bus next to an extended tire jack fixing a flat while people are hopping on and off. Yikes.

Give me a white line on a divided road back home road and I can straddle on my bike for miles. Put me on a three foot high 20 inch wide wall above a rice paddy and I can't last five feet.

I got a shave, haircut and shoulder massage at the local barber. I'm now ready. Homeward bound.




----------------------
Wednesday, April 6th
Exhilarated and grateful for the amazing trip


Imagine thousands of cars operating with no rules of the road. Every bus, truck, car, motorcycle and scooter vying for the same space. Every man for himself. Further imagine half-paved roads, crater-sized potholes, blaring horns, dust, smog and toxic diesel exhaust blowing in your face. Those were our riding conditions for the last five miles today after coming down the mountains and onto the streets of Kathmandu. Crazy!

This morning we crossed the rim of the Kathmandu Valley. It involved a challenging climb, with 5,000 feet of ascent on a newly improved tarmac road. 15 miles and at times a difficult gradient, this 'Vertical Mile' climb took around 4 hours. I was in my element. My road biking and my decent fitness finally came into play. It was difficult but I felt strong. Finally something for me to feel good about.

At our Kathmandu hotel, we ordered food, ran in for showers and then game back for our food by the pool. Tonight, we went out to dinner with Promod and the General Manager of the Himalayan Tours. He is a great guy. Though we were tired, we were exhilarated and grateful for the amazing trip and for making it back to Kathmandu in one piece.

I'm now looking forward to my first night's sleep on a mattress in a week. 😊💤



----------------------
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
The motorcycle lost control and it went down


On this nearly 100 degree day and 36 mile uphill stretch on difficult terrain, I decided to ride with the staff in the Land Rover. I had promised my family I would "make good choices". Staying off the bike today was definitely a good one. It allowed me to heal while providing the others a chance to tackle the trip's most difficult segment unencumbered. They later concurred that my decision was the right one. When they finished they were completely wiped. I doubt I would have made it.

My ride in the vehicle was eventful. About two hours in, we arrived at the small city of Dhading. It was loud, crowded and hectic, a place without order, much like Kathmandu.

Halfway down the main street, for whatever reason, our driver decided to turn around. In the single lane road, he pulled up behind a truck, backed up and began a three point turn. As he accelerated towards the other side of the street, a small Suzuki 250 motorcycle with two people on it came darting past the other side of the truck. We slightly grazed the Suzuki, completely startling the driver. The motorcycle lost control and went down. We jumped out of the jeep. The passenger laid on the ground while the driver quickly got up, pulling his bike up with him.

Immediately, dozens of people crowded around; an instant jury.
I didn't need to understand the language. They were clearly arguing about fault. It got animated, in a muted way. No imminent fisticuffs. Just a lot of back and forth, airing it out. All the while the bike passenger lay on the ground, holding his left leg. We later heard that his X-ray was negative. Thankfully.

The bike wouldn't start. The engine bar was bent. The headlight was broken and the right directional signal and mirror were in little pieces on the ground.

As our staff and the biker driver walked the Suzuki to one of the many motorcycle repair shops along the main street, I went behind the bus station in search of a bathroom.

A woman demanded money when I exited. How much for a pee? I had no way of knowing. I gave her five rupees; about half a cent. She seemed content so I moved on.

There was music and news blaring from a rooftop speaker. I sat on a stoop eating a snack while the others bartered about the repair cost. All in all it took about an hour. Everyone seemed satisfied. We were then back on our way.

This all after a harrowing descent down the mountain pass. There's nothing like passing a bus on the outside of a single lane dirt road with no guard rail and looking over a cliff. Sitting in the front passenger seat, looking out and seeing the tire two inches from the edge is a sight I hope to never see again.

We stopped for lunch at a roadside shack. They ate from the "menu", a selection of fried stuff sitting in a pan on the ground by the side of the road. I can only image what contaminants had settled on it. Thankfully the chef had packed me a bagged lunch. Delicious.

Six hours after we began, as we were crossing through a river to our campsite, we got a flat tire. Thankfully, we were still able to make it to the other side. All of the luggage and supplies had to come off of the roof in order to access the spare tire.




It was quite a scene as lots of people gathered to watch. In front of an adoring audience, the staff changed the tire in a jiffy. They are really good.

At the campsite we waited about an hour for the bikers to arrive. They peeled themselves off their bikes. There grueling day was complete. I joined them for our nightly riverside washing ritual. We drank beers at a little shack just down the road and then headed back for dinner. Our cook had gone overboard this time. In addition to a selection of chicken, vegetables, potatoes and bread, he had made a terrific chocolate cake. I now know why one of the helpers was cradling a dozen eggs all day. The cake was a special treat for our last night of camping. Impressive and delicious.





----------------------
Monday, April 4, 2016
Such is Life in Nepal

I wrote briefly about Nick the day he and I arrived. He is 36, grew up in Shrewsbury, England and went to school outside of Oxford. Nick is a nomad. He lives and works in Kuwait after spending a year in Qatar same. Nick is an engineer, at least by title. That's what they call him in his role in remediating the Kuwaiti oil left behind by the Sudam Hussein and his army 20 years ago.

Nick is bright, gregarious and enjoyable to be around. He regularly shares bits of knowledge, much of it scientific in nature. Whether it be the unintended consequences of new hydroelectric plants or how airplane wings affect trailing wind vortexes, Nick knows a lot about a lot of things. How, I don't know, but he does.

Nick travels the world mountain biking and scuba diving. In the last couple of years he's been to Austin, the Pyrenees, Egypt, Jordon, Malaysia, Shri Lanka and Oman. Nick says that he has no interest in moving back to Engalnd. He loves exploring and simply finds England "too cold." Now that Nick and I are Facebook friends I intend to enjoy his worldly travels vicariously.

On a somber note, nearing our campsite at the end of today we passed a dead man lying by the side of road. Earlier, we came close to losing one of our own. Now, lying alone in my tent late Monday night, I am battered, sore, physically depleted and psychologically spent.

It didn't seem to affect the others much but I was shaken by the death scene down the road. As we cycled in along the riverbank we saw an ambulance up ahead. We approached. The ambulance was idle, no driver or attendant nearby. A middle aged woman was sitting on the ground weeping while leaning into her teenaged son's arms, her dead husband lying on the ground before her. He had fallen from the tree, broken some ribs, punctured his lung and bled out.

Promod casually described this as part of life in Nepal. We are 100 miles from the nearest hospital. The tretirous roads are slow going. There simply isn't the infrastructure to provide fast emergency care. Promod must have realized that I was upset. He put his arm on my shoulder and said in his strong local accent, "George, such is life in Nepal." Sobering and so very sad.

Also sobering was an incident that occurred earlier in the afternoon. After passing through a series of rice paddies, we took a sharp left turn down a steep track towards the river and a suspension bridge. The path was rocky, was 30 inches wide and had a 200 foot drop off to the right. Tim went first followed by Promod, Nick, Stepen and myself. About 50 yards down, Stephen's front tire slipped. He tried to gain control but couldn't. He was launched over his handlebars and part way down the embankment. I screamed out "Promod". By the time I approached the spot where Stephen went over, he was climbing back out. Thankfully, he had been stopped by shrubs about ten feet down. He stood for a moment, dusted himself off and hopped back on his bike. His left leg was scraped and it had swelled as if someone had pumped it with helium. No sweat for Stephen. Just a blip on the radar.

When we got halfway across the rickety bridge, I looked back at the cliff. 30 feet before where Stephen had fallen it was entirely clay. If he had fallen there instead, he would have gone head over heals down to the bottom. He would not have survived it. Yet here he was, bombing across a dangerous tenth of a mile span above a dried up river bed, embracing the next challenge as if nothing had happen. This 69 year old, as Tim said, "is one tough cookie". Such is life in Nepal.

For me, I continue to average three falls a day. It's tough to complain given the previous two stories but in my little world, I'm beaten and the spills are taking their toll. In 90 degree heat, jungle humidity, thick dust, rocky steep trails, I struggle to get back on the bike with the conviction necessary to finish the daily grind.

One fall today was particularly bad. We made a relatively rapid 4,600 foot decent from Gorkha, mostly on jeep roads. At one point we entered an area of road construction.




Thick dust permeated the air and the section of road was submerged in six inches deep, fine grain dirt. Without enough transition speed, sandy terrain brought me to an immediate halt. I flew off my bike landing face first. When I got up I was covered from head to toe. The dirt was in my ears and nostrils. It was in my mouth as well.

Ordinarily it would have been funny but this was my third spill in what was the most grueling day yet. Unbeknownst to me, Promod had opted for a more challenging route because he felt we were a strong group. Unfortunately for me, he was considering the average, not the weakest link. I was struggling. I felt like I was in the 10th round of a 12 round championship fight.

Like a good corner man, Tim spent the day providing me instruction, adjusting my bike and forcing me to drink. At one point, he opened his melted Cadbury chocolate bar and held it out. Depleted, I scraped some into my mouth with my top teeth as he cupped the blue wrapper with two hands.

Nick provided encouragement too. I could tell he was doing it judiciously, not wanting to appear condescending. I appreciated that. Nick was also kind enough to apply ointment to the wounds on the back of my legs and on my lower back.

Good cornermen are essential on days like these. But, I had two rounds to go and I had to take my opponent head on. It became a mental game. I set mini goals of getting through hundred yard stretches. I also distracted myself by thinking of O'Hara's pepper and onion pizza, my favorite ipa's, Sunday mornings by the wood stove and of course my family and Laura and Luke's upcoming wedding. Pleasant thoughts to occupy my mind.

Between the three of us and with Promod's steady hand, we made it to the campsite around 4:30. A dunk in the cold river was rejuvenating. We had another nice dinner and then to bed.

Promod ads that tomorrow's ride up to Gorkha is the hardest of the trip. Should I ride in the Land Rover with the staff? Oh no. Shutter the thought.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Hotel Shanker, Kathmandu,Nepal