The bearable lightness of biking

When I started from my apartment in St gallen I was made mostly of butter and wobble, 200 km later my calves had turned to wood; brown, tough, full of imperfections and solid. The rest of me was still jelly-like but my calves were indestructible! Another 100 km on I discovered my shin was made of glass and switched from walking to the bike.

200 km after that my thighs had toughened to steel while the calves reverted to blubber. Unfortunately about this time my backside was bearing the brunt of the bicycle's bruises. Another 100 km later it had also toughened and evolved into the tush of steel.. until another 100 km later I realised my saddle position was inefficent and altered it. This exposed a totally new area du derriere to the saddle. Quell damage! Quell dommage!

There. Two kind of bilingual semi-bum-puns in one paragraph. That's all I wanted to do here if I'm honest, the rest is just window dressing..

After switching to the bike at besançon I spent the next 3 days in a sort of idyllic advertisement for french tourism.
Cycling along the bourgogne canal, on one side I passed sun-drenched verdant fields, tiny hamlets, secluded orchards and old mansions, on the other: calm still water, bejewelled with water lillies punctuated now and again with lock-cottages or passing barges with friendly French people waving from them.

Then I passed into Mordor.



Two days of storms and rain. Slogging into a strong headwind through miles of greyness and dirge. I remember at one point trying to navigate and being so utterly saturated that I couldn't retrieve my map without drenching it and my phone wouldn't respond to my commands telling me that my fingers were wet.

Still I had used what little foresight I possessed to keep a dry change of clothes in a black plastic bag so at the next hotel, after a shower and a meal all was good in the hood again. Literally.

This is my hood. The rest of the rain jacket was fired for being utterly useless but this kept the all pervasive rain out of my ears and so has earned it's place by my side. Or on my head; probably more useful there.

Since switching to the bike I had drastically lightened my already pretty streamlined set of equipment, eschewing my camping gear (which had saved me some cash on accomodation but wasn't providing the necessary rest each night) and just carrying one set of cycling clothes and another for the evenings (and toiletries. And first aid kit. And puncture repair kit. And pump. And spare tyre tube. And emergency food. Etc etc). Still everything fits into a set of saddlebags (I still feel like a wandering gunslinger, albeit a rubbish one) and is relatively streamlined, which is good, cause I'm not.

Every second little village I passed seemed to have a 'novelty giant thing' on it's outskirts; giant taps, giant flower pots, giant topiary peacocks (ahem), giant penny farthing (though those are pretty big anyway so it may have just been a normal one). I began to feel like a borrower; I kept thinking that around the next bend I'd have to fight off a giant rat with my sewing needle sword.

I pressed onwards to Paris, which for a European capital proved remarkably difficult to find; the heretofore clear bike route became a tangled morass of dead ends, construction sites, flooded paths and private property. If any neighbouring teutonic countries ever get all 'invadey' again, the French should forget the Maginot line and force them to use the 'designated tank lane', they'll either get so frustrated at the disorder they'll give it up or else never find the capital at all.

Cheaper than a howitzer and more effective at detering invaders.

Chugging along again now and hoping to reach cherbourg within a week at the outside.

A change to your terms and conditions

I've had to admit a partial defeat. A couple of days ago, through shoddy choice of route and poor timing, I had to drag myself 50km (half again my usual daily distance) in order to find food and a place to stay. This by itself wasn't a problem but it was all on hard tarmac, which was. By the evening I had earned myself some "shin splints" and I could barely walk. The next day I couldn't walk at all.

Forced to take a rest day I stayed off my feet and gave the shin's some time to recover but they were having none of it; within a kilometer this morning they were in ribbons again and I was worried about doing them some long-lasting mischief.

On the advice of my elite medical consultants (Mam and Aunty) I've decided to reluctantly switch to a bike, allowing me to continue under my own steam but take pressure off the weakling shin.

This wasn't my intention and prior to this i had just powered through the various aches & pains  which i took as par for the course but this was different and very easily exacerbated.

 I hope none of yee feel misled by my change of method but I felt I had little choice if I wanted to continue (which I very much wanted to).

So I consulted my camping guru (more on this remarkable individual at a later point) who also doubles as the bike brain (the Camping Guru had, in fact, suggested way before I start that the whole endeavour should be bike related).

His sound advice was "get the best tour bike you can afford, and use decathlon to kit it out", I kind of followed this advice, deciding that the best I could afford was also the cheapest I could find.

Behold "Palomar II" (aka "roadeater" aka "motorist's bane" aka "decathlon's budget option").

While I'm sure other parts of my anatomy might not appreciate the change (gel saddle or no), I can cope with that better than having my shin's explode all over the shop in a bony, bloody mess. No one wants to see that.

Plus I'm certain that there are no hills in France :)

So for now it's goodbye to my patented 'mac-gators' (macguyvered gaiters),

goodbye sock belt

And hello mysterious leper bike. Anyone know what this bit does? Suggestions welcome.

To celebrate my conversion I hit the nearby "Buffalo grill" chosen for it's pun value, proximity and protein density. They even had saloon style doors which I got to throw wide while holding my saddlebags. Everyone stopped and stared for a moment (though probably not cause, as I hoped, I looked like Clint eastwood) before going back to their meals.

I had the "sheriff meal" and regret nothing. See ya further along the trail, partners.

Stranger danger

Today (july 15th) I started walking from Montbelliard and was aiming for a campsite 2 km north of villersexell. As the Google crow flies it's around 35km. (In ground-level, dog avoiding, highway dodging reality it turned out to be closer to 45km).

Around half one I hit a town called 'Arcey'  where I had planned to have lunch and take a weight off. I'd eaten a croissant at 10am and it was time to feed the beast. Unfortunately Arcey turned out to live up to it's name and everything was closed. Market: closed, post office: closed. Restaurant: definitely closed (but we make it look open to really wind up less irlanderais).


At this point my left ankle, which had now  developed a traitorous liking for only going 'up' and complained vociferously at anything else really stated to make itself known.

I had no choice but to hobble on so hobble on I did. Every little village I hit had no source of food that I could see (i think the French rural heads can photosynthesise).

 Cut to 4/5 hours later and I'm limping very slowly along the side of what turned out to be a very busy road. Traffic is careening by uncomfortably close to me. I'm tired, my left ankle has me barely able to walk and I'm so ravenous that i'm angry at the world (I'd have happily fought someone to the death for a bag of crisps. I'm approx 4km from the campsite and losing light faster than I'd like...

A car pulls up beside me and a French fella starts talking French (French people do that sometimes). Here's a transcript of how I think the conversation went..


FF 'How's it going there? It's been days since I brutally murdered a hitchhiker and while you're not technically a Hitchhiker  you're close enough. Hop in there'

Me "excuse moo.  Parley francay tres pauvre.  Je suis ok. Merci"

FF "sure it's no bother; I'm heading towards the gaff where I dispose of the  evidence anyway, go on. It's no problem"

Me "Ah non Merci.  Je suis, er Le walking( mimes walking in case that wasn't obvious from how I was walking) Merci beaucoup mais je suis ok. Au revoir"
(I start to walk on)

FF pulls up alongside again 3 meters on..
FF "ah you will, go on there. Let me just move this axe and butcher's knife out of the way there for you.."

I shrug and get in the car.




Events fictionalised a bit there.

Actually the dtiver was the ridiculously sound owner of the site I was going to and twigged that I was likely camping from the rucksack and my general cheapskate vibe. He stopped, unsolicited, by the side of this mad busy road and explained that he was the owner, showed me the id and everything. I tried to explain what I was doing and how i couldnt really accept a lift without breaking a ridiculous self imposed internal code but i didn't have the French and he didn't have the English for me to get it across. When he pulled in the second time I was really worried he (or I depending on your perspective) would cause an accident so I acquised and got in.

He drove me straight to the site which is cheap as chips, has hot showers and is scrupulously clean. Stupid as it may sound I've gained a renewed appreciation for how fast cars cab carry you distances that would take ages to walk.

I later made up the distance by walking (very slowly and gingerly) from the campsite to the village. There may have been a kebab shop at the midpoint but isn't it great when the tide (of kebabs) lifts all ships (stomachs). sure everyone's a winner :)

The next morning I passed on the good karma  by using my fluent French to warn some cyclo-campers (not as cool or futuristic as they sound btw) from a camp spot that was ant-central. I actually did know how to say ants in French btw; I want bonus points for that. The cyclo-campers happily feigned incomprehension to see if  I would eventually try to mime "ants" (which I did) before repeating back what I said with a minutely different pronunciation "ahh, less formics! maintenant je comprends".

Morale of the story: get into cars with strangers, sure it's great craic, not dangerous at all!

Sayonara misty, mazey, malicious mountains!

 July 11th (ish)

After my narrow escape from the enemy I now resolved to escape from the grim, distance stealing mountains.

The lowlands might not look as pretty but I'd be able to make much better progress, particularly as I would no longer be pushed south by the trend of the range.

One problem was the enemy had disgorged me on the wrong side of the mountain. Looking at the maps I thought the best idea would be to aim for one of the passes to the north after which I could swing west freed from the poxy mountains at last. Again, in what would prove to be a recurring motif, this was not to be so easy.

Every pass I, er, passed, was a bit like this...

Gollum there just out of shot.

Far too dangerous for foot travel. Each one was a steep sided gully at least 2 km long with about 8 meters width of flat surface: just enough for a mentally bendy road, coursing river, and no pedestrians..

Eventually I found one which was more promising and despite a couple of hairy stretches later emerged from the hated mountains to be confronted by...

One more mountain. Well more of a hill really and being hydrated and well rested I made short work of this one and soon emerged into France. All good in the hood.


Side note: IMMEDIATELY after crossing the border every other adult I encountered (and some of the more contemptuous kids) had that gallic stereotype vertical gracity-defying cigarette thing going on. Gérard depardue  would also always. ALWAYS, BY LAW. be on at least 2 tv channels simultaneously whenever I tuned in at a hotel.

Man vs mountains (spoiler: mountains win)

Imagine you live with your family in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere, perched a little below the tree line of this massive steep hill.

 You're settling for a meal with your loved ones on the wooden porch in the last light of day, 3 dogs contendly sit waiting at your feet for scraps, beef burgers sizzle on a barbecue you're tending. Dusk is falling when suddenly your dogs, as one, turn to look toward the summit. Senses attuned to something...other. the forest suddenly turns silent...

Out of the forest and the gathering gloom lurches a creature from nightmare. A pallid, overweight irish man in running shorts and sweat slicked tee shirt bellowing 'FEED ME! ' from his cracked dehydrated lips as he lumbers towards your home, arms outstretched...

Probably should give yee some context here..

The last few days I had been following part of the Jura crest trail, a beautiful path following the jura mountains (more foothills of their larger Alp cousins really) in a sweeping south westerly arc from near Zurich to Geneva.

While this carried me a bit south when I mean to ultimately go north, during the planning stages I reckoned that the added visual beauty, amenities and resupply opportunities outweighed the added distance.

This is because during the planning stages I was an idiot.






While it's a beautiful trail and gives some stunning views (particularly of the alps) I had totally underestimated how much the added vertical element would slow down the distance I could cover in a day. It was also the first time I really understood that failure to complete the journey before school starts was a distinct and, thanks to me now 'going public' , embarrassing, possibility.



I would not look so smug if I knew the path would then take me up another, higher, hill...


 Drinking water had also become a real problem as, unlike on most swiss trails, above a certain point it became very scarce. I was carrying 3 lies of water but would tear through this very quickly while ascending.

That all being said, things were going ok till the day I ran into Balthsal (hereafter refered to as 'the enemy'.

In and of itself it's not a massive obstacle; a 1200 meter anthill in comparison to the titanic alps visible from the enemy's vile summit. But the steep 800 meter climb to it's top came later in the day after another steep climb of around 600 meters and several hours of long walking. I can already hear my more mountainy mates snickering from their high hides at this point but to someone from the more "pizza and netflix" end of the fitness spectrum, the enemy proved to be a worthy foe and right git, especially with a heavy pack and in the sweltering heat.

By the time I reached the top I had demolished all 3 liters and was still parched. Still mission accomplished,  onwards and upwards... Till I reached the crest.

Normally most of these ridges I'd met so far were a combination of forest, livestock pasture and small meadows, the latter of which (provided one is stealthy and discrete) you can find a place to pitch your tent from dawn till dusk, not so the enemy. The crest was a knife edge with one steep side thickly forested, the other side steep. Just steep. A drop off to nothing.

I couldn't find a 2 square meter patch of flatness on which to pitch my tiny tent but with no water this wasn't really an option anyway.

On this relatively high place, I hit my personal nadir; I had no water, was footsore and exhausted, had nowhere to make my bed (let alone lie in it) and (sorry if this is too much information for yee) things had started to chafe. Things that should never be allowed to chafe.

Dispirited, reluctant to surrender hard won altitude but ultimately cognizant of the madness of a waterless night on bare mountain, I decided to take the next non-vertical path to a lower elevation and get myself some water and a place to sleep.

Easier said than done. In the juras you are never more than a couple of hours from civilisations you can't go too wrong.

Turns out I was a couple of hours from civilisation. A couple of waterless, exhausted hours of misery with darkness coming on fast. (Quick side note: smart, organised people with sharp planning and an appreciation for what it means when all the contour lines on a map combine together don't find themselves in situations like this. I, however, am not one of those people).



A way out of dodge did present itself in the form of this (see artist's impression: I've was too petrified to take a photo for yee). A series of narrow, slanted, slippery detritus-strewn switchbacks precariously descending a 70 degree slope with no guard rail. At one point there was a rope to hang onto, at another, more worringly a plaque with 'class of 2010' enscribed on it. I only hope it was the "mountain safety engineers" class of 2010 and not, as the path would suggest, "montessori make and do project" class of 2010. 



As many of yee may know, I'm not a big fan of heights and was fairly shaking by the time I reached the bottom.

 This was also the first time since starting that I thought to myself "I might not be able to do this".

At this point, awesome people happened..

That family from earlier that i now ran into while they were about to eat their dinner turned out to be incredibly kind and helpful. Maybe they're used to unprepared idiots bumbling out of the mountains all the time.

In any case not only did they fill my water bottles, give me a glass of coke and invite me to share their meal (politely declined) they directed me to the nearest mountain hotel/lodge. Even more, realising it may be closed, they rang the owner... who, though he had shut for the night, returned to open the gaff for his one guest.

Thanks to the kindness of strangers I now had my own overlook hotel in which to recuperate for the night.



On the morrow I would lay my plans to defeat mountains...

Ytivarg, Norse God of up.

Switzerland has less flat parts than a hyperactive toddler's plasticine model of a dancing hedgehog.

Instead Switzerland has 'up'. lots of up. Buckets and buckets of up. To be fair it has a decent amount of 'down' too, but all the down is just there to justify more up.

Need to go to work? That's some up.
Shops? That's an up.
Visit a friend? That's some up, a little down....then more up..

Up

Some more up

A bit more up for ya there now

(Please excuse the layout: trying to do this on a phone is awkward).



Every time you start down a slope, Gravity beckons you on "Hey, how's it going? Let me help you with those footsteps. Come on, let's get some marshmallows and maybe a beer.."

When you reach the bottom though, some malign transformation has taken place and gravity's evil, bearded twin is waiting "GET UP THAT HILL, YOU PIECE OF SLIME! I DON'T CARE IF IT'S VERTICAL; MOVE IT BEFORE I BREAK YOUR FACE!!"
I kind of imagine Ytivarg as a cross between a drill seargeant, pennywise the clown and an amalgam of all PE teachers ever.

Whoever laid out Switzerland's (pretty amazing, in fairness) 1000s of kilometers of well signposted 'wanderweg' paths must have secretly worshipped Ytivarg, as every path seems to delight in going over every single crest and undulation available. None of that utilitarian Roman 'straight A-B' nonsense here, oh no! No mountain will be missed, every bit of up will be visited!

So what better place than here to start my training? Well, I say "training" what I really mean is 'eat pizza while watching 'police academy'".

Anyone planning a long journey should consult this Oracle.

Instead of training I chose to procrastinate by planning instead: why do, when you can plan?!

I divided up the route into four stages (which I refered to as phase 1-4 in a vain effort to sound cool..).

The first step was getting from St gallen to Brugg, where i would then join the long distance 'Jura Crest' trail to la Chaux du Fonds, after that I'd make my way to Dijon. From Dijon I'd follow the GR2 trail northwest to leave and finally from there I'd go to Cherbourg to board a Dublin-bound ferry.

I had maps all over the shop, even colour coded key dates matched to each stage based on an approximation of how much distance I could cover in a day.

The procrasto-lair. Virtually all of this plan would be totally changed...

The plan immediately fell to bits.

Turns out that the ferry I had intended to take does not accept foot passengers, instead I'd have to take a ferry to Rosslare and walk north to dublin.

Wecome aboard, every one!  NOT YOU, PEDESTRIAN!!

As I only had a limited time before the start of the new school year in late August,  this extra few hundred km threw the whole shambolic enterprise into jeopardy. So I just started early.

I decided that, provided I walk every step of the journey, I'd allow myself a couple of side trips (i want to see the louvre!) Once i pick up from the exact spot I left off. Saying this may be pedantic but for the sake of full disclosure.. :)

After school a week or two ago, I walked from my apartment in St gallen to gossau
the next town westward, the next day from there to Wil (the next town) etc until just before finishing school (and taking a couple of days to see a couple of concerts) I had reached Zurich.

 The next morning I started this blog yoke, cleaned up the pizza crust and left my apartment.

I was already hungry.

Evening all

Hello everyone, after coming under considerable (though good natured) peer pressure, I've decided to keep this journal of what I'm planning to do with my Summer.

This Summer, I set myself the target of walking from St Gallen in North-East Switzerland, where I am currently working, home to Dublin. 

The rough route. Ignore the distance; I don't intend to walk along the seabed, not after last time; bloody maritorial Atlanteans with their anger and tridents.

My main aim is to see if I could do it in the time available, get in shape and hopefully have a laugh along the way meeting strange people (but hopefully not too strange). I was initially hesitant to write about this (and am still rather reluctant to be honest).

I was also unsure about whether I should try to fundraise for charity. This wasn't down to a Scroogey, mean mentality but rather because due to time constraints failure is a distinct possibility and I was worried about letting the side down a bit.

Then a friend suggested that, this being the case, I could instead suggest people sponsor the distance that I do manage to cover; serving the dual purpose of motivating me to succeed and ensuring that a few quid will be raised even if I didn't.

So I've created a Go fund me page here, from which I will give any funds raised to a combination of Cystic Fibrosis research and Irish homeless charities.  I intend to keep a rough "kilometre-meter(metermeter) on this yoke and will put it on facebook too. There will probably also be a number of selfies of melooking sweaty and dishevelled in a variety of locales (So business as usual, then).

I'll give more detail on the route, preparations, what I've done so far as due to etc in subsequent posts but for now I'm already (typically) behind schedule, and need to get going.