Solo Bicycle Journeys Across Six Continents, The Lure of the Next Bend

By Matthew Cull

Over a 18 year time span, and on six separate journeys, Matthew cycled solo and unsupported through regions that ranged from the equator to above the Arctic Circle. He rode through cultures, languages, along mountain ranges, and rivers, through deserts, grasslands, tundra, and cities. It was a project that would see his evolution of thought, lifestyle, and his view of the world and its peoples. Matthew found the hardship, joy, and beauty of his chosen method of travel, and of the lands and peoples he traveled through. Unhindered by metal, glass, speed or apparent affluence, his bicycle allowed him to find the isolated corners far from the beaten path, and to make contact with the people, the land, and the elements. Each journey was an increase in the unknowns and challenges, but each journey also saw gains in skills, capabilities and confidences. This adventure travelogue details all six of his grand journeys across the world and Matthew's journey within along the way. Thirty two color photographs and six maps add visual appeal, detail, and depth to his account allowing the reader to see some of what Matthew experienced.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Cull
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9780985079062

Matthew Cull

Matthew, a native of Australia, and current resident of Aspen, Colorado, USA, has spent much of a lifetime exploring the world, primarily by self powered means: cycling and walking. His journeys by bicycle have taken him through 72 countries on six continents, and his long distance hiking has taken him along the length of the European Alps and the Pyrenees.Matthew has published two adventure narratives about several of his journeys: Solo Bicycle Journeys Across Six Continents and Hard Road to Nirvana, thoughtful and dramatic stories about hard won explorations by bicycle across the planet. He has also published six fine art photography books of candid and spontaneous photographs of people from non-western countries, under the series title, International Celebration of Culture, with individual titles: Women, Men, Kids, Parent and Child, Faith, and Marketplace. These books celebrate humanity and cultural diversity, an aspect that is diminishing as the world becomes progressively more modern. Matthew’s work places emphasis on traditional culture, activity, religion and the array of human emotion and activity within life and landscape.When not at large exploring the world he can be often found along the trails and roads in the mountains of Colorado.

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Solo Bicycle Journeys Across Six Continents

The Lure of the Next Bend

Text and Photographs

by

Matthew Cull

Life’s Passion Publishing

Solo Bicycling Journeys Across Six Continents

The Lure of the Next Bend

Text and Photographs by Matthew Cull

Copyright © 2016 by Matthew Cull

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying recording or any other storage or retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher.

First Edition: February 2012

Second Edition: December 2016

Published by Life’s Passion Publishing at Smashwords

Also available in Print Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9850790-6-2

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Names: Cull, Matthew, author, photographer.

Title: Solo bicycle journeys across six continents : the lure of the next bend / text and photographs by Matthew Cull.

Other Titles: Lure of the next bend

Description: Revised. | Aspen, Colorado : Life's Passion Publishing, 2016.

Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-4826-5691-6 | ISBN 978-0-9850790-6-2 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Cull, Matthew--Travel. | Cyclists--Biography. | Bicycle touring. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC GV1051.C85 A3 2016 (print) | LCC GV1051.C85 (ebook) | DDC 796.6092--dc23

Life’s Passion Publishing

P.O. Box 929

Aspen, Colorado, 81612, USA

www.matthewjkcull.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter 1--Introduction

Chapter 2--North America 1984

Chapter 3--Australia 1985,1987

Chapter 4--Europe 1988

Chapter 5--Africa 1998

Chapter 6--South America 2000

Chapter 7--Asia 2002

Chapter 8--Coming Home

About the Author

Other Books by Matthew Cull

Dedication and Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Introduction

I rolled down off the pass into a vast plain of grass. There was not a tree, not a feature, no point of reference. Just grass. And a narrow line of dusty gravel that was my path. The line of hills I had just crossed receded into an expanse that seemed that it could continue unabated to Lhasa. Nestled against the hills were the camps of Tibetan nomads, their dark yak wool tents set amongst seas of animals: the black of yak and dzo, the white of sheep and goat, thousands of them.

At an altitude of around 4000 meters (13,200 feet) I was in a far corner of the Tibetan plateau. I had been cycling for a week past Tibetan people, their homes and camps, villages and monasteries, folks immersed in Tibetan Buddhism, dressed in their wild, loose fitting garb. They were friendly and vivacious: kids had run across the fields from tending their herds to see me as I rode by; I had been invited into one tent for tea and old stale bread; folks approached and touched my bike and equipment with innocent curiosity. But I was in China. The day before I had crossed from Gansu to Sichuan provinces and what the Chinese called Tibet (politically still China) was far to the west and south, out across that grass. It was a distinction good only on a map and in the halls of government.

Heavily laden trucks plowed the road on some obscure shortcut from Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, to Gansu and beyond. These lumbering giants, all blue and all identical, as all trucks in China are, kicked up great clouds of white that swept across the grass with the wind, coating me, my bike and panniers and filling my lungs with pervasive dust. I stopped and walked over to a square brick building plonked out in the middle of the grass like a pimple. It was a tiny temple and I peered in through the locked gate. I could see an image of the Buddha, simple yet serene, wrapped in a gold scarf with candle holders lined up in front of it. Just the ticket if you happened to be herding your animals nearby.

The clear, still morning that had held the early home fire smoke tight above the villages, had stirred. I kept an eye back over my shoulder as a line of intimidating dark cloud built along the hills I had climbed that morning. The road rose and fell gently across broad casual valleys, each low crest revealing the next hour or so of cycling ahead. It felt alone and isolated, far from the madding crowds of Han China, far from the ugly industry and pollution that had filled too much of my 2000 kilometers (1200 miles) of riding so far in this country. It was wonderful to be at last in a landscape that I had envisioned; just me and the elements. I can do elements.

I was settling in quite nicely to this vast land. Then I felt the familiar feel of a bicycle with uncomfortably wobbly handling. With a bike that weighed in at over one hundred pounds with all of its load, handling that felt like riding on a water bed usually meant one thing; soft tires from a puncture. I looked down between panniers and spokes. Sure enough my rear tire was bulging out from both sides of the rim. I may have ridden 60,000 kilometers (37,500 miles) riding across the earth on a laden bike but I continued to dread mechanical problems, even though I had been a professional bike mechanic. As I lifted my head up, feeling that mixed emotion of dread and resignation, a modern sports utility vehicle pulled up slowly beside me. I looked over to see an arm coming out of the window with a can of soda in its hand. At the other end of the arm was a maroon robed Tibetan Buddhist monk sporting a broad warm smile. Juggling the bike with one hand I instinctively took the soda, without a word spoken the SUV sped off into the dust.

My frustration at the puncture instantly vaporized. As I wheeled my bike off the road, shaking my head and laughing at the vagaries of life and travel I realized that I had just happened upon one the essences of bicycle travel.

Alone and self reliant, in a landscape so much bigger than I, I moved by my own power. I felt the elements, the land, its people and culture. My legs and the lure of the next bend may be the driving force but my journey flowed subject to forces I could not control. In the constant unfolding of the land, and in the winding of the road in front of me there were difficulties, joys, excitements, disappointments and sometimes the bittersweet happened all at once. Some things were expected, some came as complete surprises. There were struggles, there were exaltations. I kept my eyes and mind open and saw things I could see no other way. I reaped the rewards that came with a mode of transport that placed me among the very people, the very landscape, unhindered by glass, metal or speed, I had come to experience. I learnt about the world and I learnt about myself. It was adventure, it made me feel truly alive and I’d been hooked across six continents.

I usually never drink soda. But how could I not drink this one?

* * *

I have always been entranced by the next bend. Beyond it lie all the wonders of the world. All its peoples, all its natural grandeurs and all the great adventures of life. Just around that corner, just in a moments time, there could be a whole range of experiences and delights: a new outlook, a new perspective, a new lesson, a new gamut of emotions. Or it could be just more of the same ol’, same ol’. Just another bend in an otherwise tedious existence. Or one lousy, boring, depressing time, an ugly place, a crash of feelings, a collision of ideals, an unhappy ending. And that itself is the lure. And the risk. Anything could be there and the adventure is that unknown. What will happen can only be found by going around that bend.

Indeed my physical activities almost always involve going somewhere. Ball sports - ho hum. Gyms - dull, dull. Even downhill skiing only brings you back from a place the lift took you to in the first place - inside a roped enclosure. Give me a trail, a road, or just a, preferably large, chunk of countryside and I am perfectly content wandering off to tour and spend hours, days or weeks on my eternal search for the delights of the next bend. Call it my great life’s passion. Free and at large upon the earth exploring all it has to offer.

Indeed this innate desire is so pervasive, so a part of my cellular structure, that I am almost obsessed with new places. For an hour, a week, or a year, the activity has to be to some place new, or via a new route, or at least in a different season. Without these new places, these alternate routes, the impact of the next bend looses its punch. I already have a clue about what lies beyond. Even though weather, people, animals and unforeseen events may create very different experiences on subsequent visits, given the choice I would always prefer to be clueless. Still, a good outing should always end with a new red line drawn on my map of life. Fortunately not everyone is hard-wired like this.

Like so many things in life this drive had humble beginnings. In school and university I ran through the surrounding neighborhood and the nearby National Park. I went on hikes through the deceptively tame mountains outside of my home city of Sydney, Australia. With age the net was cast ever wider, the bends ever further from home, ever more exciting. I joined friends on travels and hikes in Tasmania, Papua New Guinea, New Zealand and, in a dramatic life course change, moved to the US. Based in Vermont there were completely different landscapes, mountains and seasons around every bend. And there were bends galore.

I was then, fertile ground, a perfect candidate for what would become the biggest project of my life. It would be a project that would wander on for 18 years, yet wouldn’t have its true definition till it was halfway done. A project perfect for a fellow who had a keen appreciation and love of the lure of the next bend.

* * *

My project attained its inception at work, in a funky little Mexican vegetarian restaurant in Vermont. An occasional customer had been a cyclist and had undertaken a couple of long rides across some large chunks of the earth. I saw one of Paul’s audio-visual programs where his theme was to encourage the audience to do similar. At first it seemed like nothing much more than a novel, albeit possible, idea. But beware, the seeds are often small.

The seed grew slowly. It melded well with my already inherent love of activities that took me places: cycling, running, hiking and traveling. In Vermont I had taken every opportunity to explore. I had cycled the roads, hiked the trails, and run through an assortment of horrendous Vermont weather. Cycle travel seemed an extension of passions and interests I already fostered. Paul’s idea had found a receptive home. The scale of the adventure though was in a whole new realm. I was used to a few days or weeks, not the few months it would take for such a ride. I latched on to the idea of cycling across North America, a grand and easily accessible option for a long ride. The idea though hung in limbo waiting for a good swift kick in the butt.

The kick came in the form of the death of a short but argumentative marriage. Instantly I had all the reasons to go and none of the reasons to stay. Two months later I was on a bus bound for the West Coast. I would cycle back.

Dumping onto the roadside from the bus on the Oregon coast I could never have imagined the route my new found activity would find. As I struggled to keep my wobbly overloaded bicycle upright in a flow of traffic I had no idea that what I was beginning would wander on for nearly twenty years. That ultimately I would cycle across six continents, through 47 countries for 70,000 kilometers (43,500 miles). That I would travel through dozens of cultures, languages, currencies and a handful of religions. That I would follow and cross mountain ranges, plains, deserts, forests, rivers, fjords, through time zones and lines of longitude and latitude from the equator north to far above the Arctic Circle and south to the Southern Ocean. That I would come into the lives of people everywhere, sharing their homes, meals, conversations, and ways of live. I didn’t even stop to consider that merely going for a ride could ultimately reshape who I was or what I would come to believe.

Yet I was wide-eyed, willing of leg, adaptable of mind and I never lost that most important ingredient: an insatiable desire to see, feel and experience that that was around the next bend. I found the joy and the disappointments of the earth and its peoples. I took the good with the bad and found the resources, be they within or beyond, to carry on and find the beauty and richness that the world had to offer. Idea became project, project evolved, project melded into dream, and through tenacious pursuit dream became reality.

My journey across North America, and ultimately my project, would become six separate rides across each of the six possible continents. Each journey was its own separate entity. Each journey took on its own life and became my life. What I would come back to in the real world was never really thought about until I returned. I interspersed my journeys with bouts of real, and far more regular, life. One continent of travel always seemed plenty enough. I returned saturated with events, experiences, thoughts and memories. I had to sit down and let it all soak in. Through the first three journeys I finished one without realizing the existence of the next. I would continue with a working life and when opportunity arose I grabbed it and set off, pulling another continent off the map. Yet as I grew older, I began to look further ahead and after the fourth ride, through Africa, I developed a four-year plan that aimed at South America and Asia. It was only then that my project finally found its name and definition and I knew its final goal other than the next opposite coastline. Blame age for thinking ahead. Yet with my project done I have no more clue about the future than I did twenty years ago!

Few, if any of my journeys would rate a passing glance by the Guinness Book people. For a variety of reasons there are a few small holes in the continuity of routes; I didn’t always start at the very edge, nor finish at the very edge, of the continents. I avoided areas of political or military turmoil or where banditry was rife. My dog-headed drive forced me into days or weeks of trial and difficulty, up against terrible roads or weather or mountains or boredom. Sometimes though, things became too much, I chucked it in, my stuff went on the roof and I utilized the machine. But to set records or to gain fame and fortune was not the point. The adventure, the education, the experience and the achievement were for me and me alone. Continuity of route and success despite the hurdles along the way enriched the journey and the reward at the end. But, just like anyone, I drew my lines.

With each successive journey the rides became more challenging. Each journey would see the onset of other variables: languages, poor roads, different cultures, sociopolitical uncertainties, weather, visa requirements, and on. Almost subliminally I chose the next continent based on incrementally upping the ante in manageable bites. But also with each journey came experience, knowledge, and confidence. As obstacles were overcome and my comfort level increased, challenges that had once seemed beyond me came within grasp. Still the last journey found me at my most nervous. In the big wide world there is always room for challenge, always opportunity for self-doubt, always a place for adventure. And what is adventure without uncertainty?

My series of six separate journeys became one journey of itself. It became not just a journey across vast tracts of planet but a journey through life. The twenty-year time span of my project provided ample time for my approach to travel and life to evolve. The journeys mingled with maturity to produce a dance of life where the two where inseparable. I embraced my travels, my travels swirled my thoughts. While I defined my project, it also shaped what I would come to think and how I wanted to live my life. It was perhaps, as any good life project should be.

Chapter 2

North America

1984

My fledgling thought of cycling across North America took root in the dying throws of an argumentative marriage. Alone, after it was over, the idea still remained and there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t do it. Indeed, I needed an escape from the overwhelming barrage of emotions, conflicts and small town gossip. Planning the journey became something of a lifeline that pulled me through the post marital stress, providing an end of the tunnel effect. I already had the bike, and at a local bike store in Vermont I dropped a whopping $400 on panniers and racks, a small fortune by my meager standards at the time. Almost everything else I had or made do with. Leaving all my humble belongings behind, I boarded a Greyhound bound for the opposite coast. I nursed my bike through the rigors of bus travel, keeping a watchful eye as it made the transfers from one bus to another. I found myself wincing and gesturing to bus cargo loaders to be careful of my invaluable passport for my ride back.

It never occurred to me that I should try to load up and ride my bike before I left home. So, next to the roadside bus stop in Newport, Oregon, I put the five full panniers on the bike for the first time. I then set off south along Highway 101 wobbling along beside a stream of traffic largely out of control with its unmanageable weight.

Although my ride would take me east I started off going south. Parallel to the coast, and at times right on it, I beamed along the highway getting the feel of my heavy behemoth. I made use of the cool moist tailwinds, but struggled to stay upright as the wind bounced around coastal cliffs. Winding above crashing waves or heading straight, behind coastal dunes, I rejoiced in the new freedom, the low cost, the fresh air, and an endless road which brought a new view with every bend. And I did it all with only my strength and resourcefulness to rely on. For the first time in my life I was alone, at large on the planet.

Just before Coos Bay I turned west and rode through the dunes out to the beach. I made the ritual of filling a small bottle with Pacific Ocean water and taking a photo with the water at my backdrop. At Coos Bay I turned inland leaving the dull roar of the sea and, propelled by feisty sea breezes, gained elevation up the Coquille River.

Coming into the Roseburg area at the end of the day it was clear that the abundance of forest campgrounds of the coast wasn’t going to happen there. Planning may be very well but I was going to end up, at the end of each day, wherever I ended up. As a cyclist I couldn’t exactly nip down the street 30 kilometers (20 miles) to the nearest camping facility. And anything more expensive was far beyond my pitiful financial resources. Grass and extremely large backyards were in no short supply so I began knocking on some doors to request the use of a small piece of these yards. It took a while to find somebody home and I began to get a little panicky. With light fading fast I was welcome to camp, use the facilities, and share an ice tea with Laura. My anxiety over being stuck proved unfounded and three days into the journey I got my first lesson: things always work out in the end. In cycle travel, lessons come hard and fast. But they are oh-so hard to remember.

From Roseburg I began the serious climb into the Cascade Mountains. The highway followed the beautiful turquoise waters of the Umpqua River as it wound past thickly forested slopes of dark evergreens. The tourist traffic of the coastal highway had been replaced by the continuous stream of charging log trucks. They carried Oregon’s dwindling forests on their backs to the mill and blasted me with bow waves of air as they went by. Soon after a side road significantly reduced their traffic, the road began to climb in earnest. My peppy speed dropped. For dozens of kilometers and 1,500 vertical meters (5,000 feet) I crawled uphill. All it took was leg strength and patience. I watched as mile and elevation markers sauntered slowly by. A van with three guys stopped and shared a drink and a chat. Snow capped peaks came into view and, just beyond Diamond Lake, I dove into the open forest to camp.

I continued into a land of wildflowers, rocks, 4 meter (12 feet) high snow banks and views out over the deep turquoise waters of Crater Lake. I left the bike at the overcrowded tourist development and hiked up to Mt. Garfield, one of the peaks on the crater’s rim. Beyond the smooth dark forests rose the grand and inspiring volcanoes of the Cascades: Mcloughlin, Bailey, Thielson, Bachelor.

I rolled off the spine of the Cascades the next day down onto straight roads, small towns and a forest pillaged by years of logging. I turned north, and cycled with fast moving traffic up to Bend. There I turned east again and headed out into the quickly drying desert. Cool and moist the coast of Oregon may be but the majority of the state was hot and arid, the winds that flowed over it sucked clean by the verdant mountains I had just crossed. It was a sharp transition.

I put in some long 160 kilometer (100 mile) days past Smith Rocks, through Mitchell, Dayville and John Day. I drunk heavily in the hot dry air. Yet the landscape was attractive; a mix of scrubby bushes, cliffs and small pine trees. I passed other cyclists, and as part of friendly tradition, stopped to talk and compare stories. Four had come from Orlando in three months and 7,000 kilometers (4,000 miles). One was en route to Virginia. Another couple of guys I would repeatedly meet over the next week as we made our way east. I would occasionally stay in hostels, and many a fine evening in the western half of the country was spent in like-minded camaraderie, sharing stories and experiences.

Further east I veered north-east, climbing out of the arid lowlands into greener pine forested ranges up to a series of passes over 1,500 meters (5,000 feet). My days continued to be long and I spent the afternoons watching over my shoulder at thunderstorms in hot pursuit. One afternoon, wanting to maximize my day’s progress, I passed up a perfectly good campsite that came along a little too early in the day. Later, about to be inundated by an incoming storm, my search for a campsite became filled with anxiety. As I had already learnt the tension had been unwarranted: the storm by-passed me altogether.

Riding over sagebrush hills I dropped into Hell’s Canyon and crossed my first state line into Idaho. Flat tires, one after the other, punctuated my cycling as I toiled through long hot climbs out of deep valleys. I drank like a fish and went shirtless, sweaty skin frying in the strong sun and lips cracking in the relentless dryness. It seemed primarily a physical exercise, long hard days out on the road in the elements.

I had started the journey with a good degree of fitness. Over the years I had spent long days cycling the roads and hiking the trails of Vermont’s Green Mountains and New York’s Adirondacks. I was very familiar with the trials of hours on the go and the joys of mileage passing by. Still the continual day after day exertion of touring was new. The advantage of a long journey was that any shortcomings in fitness were easily made up over the first days and weeks. Daily distances soon increased and climbs quickly became easier to scale. I had started this journey with a loose schedule- the primary parameter being that I should be done by the onset of winter. Even though the plan gave me the freedom to relax, it contradicted my ingrained bullheaded nature. So I went like hell anyway. Yet I took every opportunity to chat with the locals: road working flag persons, service station operators, people in stores, and another pair of cyclists from Virginia.

From the moment I hopped on my bike in Newport, I became a roadside attraction. Any time I stopped I inadvertently attracted a barrage of questions from locals and tourists alike. Where was I going? Where was I from? How far did I ride each day? Some seemed warmly interested and I rose to the occasion and talked for a while, venturing to other subjects besides my ride schedule. Others seemed content with a quick fix of, where-to-and-from. Others could only manage to blurt out some insensitive statement such as, You picked the hard way. They would often catch me as I packed my bags outside a grocery store or as I stuffed yet more food into the insatiable engine.

At the onset I had envisioned my journey as a natural and physical one, much like my runs, rides, and hikes through the mountains and