Ultimate Boot Camp

I was intrigued when my lovely editor suggested I take part in a Boot Camp. “A Boot Camp?” I said. “I rarely wear boots, but I do enjoy camping.” The name conjures images of bunks, boot-polish and berating. Of a large alpha-male screaming unrealistic demands for one more push-up. His pectorals ripping through his tight t-shirt as he soaks you in spittle. His eyes bulging and his teeth grinding, as a giant vein throbs from the side of his tree-trunk neck. I think of the various TV shows in which celebrities sacrifice their dignity, in an attempt to lose a few pounds and win the viewing public’s affection. Poor Rik Waller standing on the scales for the first time in ten years, and acting surprised that his body mass index is comparable to that of a walrus.

The military way of life is something Joe Public rarely gets to experience. The peak physical condition a soldier must maintain is admirable, and there is something to be said for their strict, disciplined way of life. However, I have never seriously considered signing up, as I don’t really fancy killing anyone. I wondered how I would handle someone barking instructions at me. Many people resent being told what to do by an authoritative figure, and I am no exception. The concept of total subservience in any situation is unnerving, as it goes against our fundamental principles of individuality and freedom. Who ever would be putting us through our paces for the weekend was going to have to be more than the simple-minded Sergant Slaughter of my visions.

As it turned out, he looked uncannily similar. Buzz-cut hair, black muscle-hugging t-shirt, khaki cargo pants and shoes you could style your hair in, he looked like an over-sized Action Man. Even his name had a regimented ring to it - John Stratford. Everything about John screamed ‘military’ yet within a few hours in his presence, one noticed signs of a subtler personality than his soldierly demeanor suggested. His stern, even voice carried warm undertones. His eyes seemed to constantly be on the lookout for signs of fatigue or disillusionment from his trainees. Whenever this was apparent, John applied his uncanny ability to identify each individual’s strengths and weaknesses to good effect.

When I mentioned I was planning on hiking in Norway, the PTI told me of the Royal Marine training undertaken in the Arctic Circle. As part of the course, the trainees, after cross-country skiing all day, would have to cut a hole in the ice and jump fully clothed, into the sub-zero abyss. From that point on, the pain induced by the relentless exercise, seemed less significant. Whether it was a beach circuit, tug-of-war, a Marine endurance course or simply an insane number of push-ups, everything carried with it an intensity few of us had experienced before. But however excruciating the burn was, I knew that the Marines had been through infinitely worse, not just in battle, but also in preparation for such situations.

I developed a stoic resolve that allowed me to push myself past the pain barrier. Upon looking around at my comrades, I could see the exact same determined appearance etched across their faces. It was as if we all wanted to prove that we had what it takes to be a Royal Marine. We secretly wanted John to take us to one side and say “listen son, I think you’d be an asset to Team Marine – your country needs you.” I would of course graciously decline, sighting commitments and various career aspirations, but thanking him for the offer. At this point John would try to talk me around, before reluctantly accepting my decision and making clear that the door would always be open for someone as strong and resilient as myself.

My fellow civilians and I got a taste of the military experience for a weekend, albeit diluted by the luxury Devonshire accommodation, 5 star cuisine, and the distinct lack of any firearms, tanks or grenades. For the same price as a Caribbean Cruise or a luxury Spa Break in Sardinia, one can have a much more relaxing experience for the money. However, if it’s action, adventure and extreme muscle fatigue you’re looking for, then look no further. I’m off to have an ice bath before settling down to laugh at re-runs of celebrity fit club, and watch The Waller attempt in vain to run the length of a football pitch. Entertainment at it’s finest.

Which Surf Tribe Do You Belong To?

Corporate Cool Guy
Andy, after working his way up the corporate ladder, is now earning a six-figure salary. Although he enjoys the finer things in life; expensive convertibles, a swanky studio apartment in West Kensington, and breast enhancements for his wife Suzan, Andy sees himself as somewhat of a free spirit. After taking a few surfing lessons in Oz with a guy called Koby, a tanned dude with long blonde hair that Andy really felt he connected with on so many levels, Andy now regularly relives the transcendental experience of being at one with nature to his young secretary.
Andy is arranging a team-building weekend in Newquay where he will pay large sums of money for him and his beer-bellied colleagues to wear neoprene and flounder around on large florescent foam boards.

The Geared-up Grom
Simon is 15 and has recently had his hair cut in exactly the same style as his favourite surfer Andy Irons, including expensive highlights to recreate that sun-bleached look. To date, his parents have bought Simon seven high-performance surfboards, all of which are completely covered in various surf stickers from Quiksilver to Billabong. This, along with his branded hoody and baggy jeans gives people the impression that he is sponsored by at least a handful of major surf brands. Simon plays the cool dude around his friends but gets grounded if he doesn’t practice piano every evening.

The Thrasher
Jack is sick of all these idiot beginners crowding his favorite surf-spots and getting in his way all the time. Don’t they realize he’s been coming to this spot for years? Way before surfing became so damn popular! These crowds are a virus, and Jack chooses to remedy this particular virus with aggression – effing and blinding at anyone who dares cross his path. He of course has priority on any wave he chooses, regardless of the order of the line-up, and everyone else should automatically know and acknowledge that fact. After all, he’s lived here all his life and this is a local spot for locals only.

Super Gramps
Richard is much older than his toned figure and excellent posture lead you to believe. After turning seventy this year, Richard still feels like a child inside - a fact he accredits to morning yoga sessions, healthy eating, regular sex with his wife Gene, and above all else, surfing. Richard thinks that conventional education is irrelevant believing surfing to be the only true education.

The Jock
On average, Brad uses the word ‘stoked’ in every other sentence, regardless of context. When he’s not surfing Brad is lifting weights in his garage or buying t-shirts that are one size to small in order to accentuate his buff figure. He will gladly challenge anyone who thinks they can drink him under the table or beat him in an arm-wrestle, and tends to become quite aggressive after a few too many pints. This underlying aggression is most prevalent in the water, where he tears through each wave as if it had just insulted his mother, while simultaneously insulting any fellow surfer’s mother at the top of his booming voice. Brad thinks he is God’s gift to surfing.

Soul Surfer
Dylan is a sixties child and, apart from the crows feet around his eyes, has not changed one bit since the flower power era of peace and love. Dylan divides the majority of his time between smoking doobies while listening to The Grateful Dead, and surfing on his vintage longboard, a custom made 1967 Greg Noll. Too much LSD back in the day contributes towards Dylan’s monotone drawl, each syllable taking about as long as it takes for the moon to orbit the Earth, and each sentence ending in either “man” or “dude”. Dylan believes surfing to be the ultimate spiritual experience.

The Hodad
Harry owns the biggest collection of surf movies of anyone he knows. He has a clock that’s the shape of a surfboard, not to mention a similarly themed rug, bed-sheet, lampshade and fridge magnets – not to mention the three old boards dotted around the flat. Harry only wears surf brands (preferably Quiksilver or O’Neill) and owns seventeen pairs of boardies and eight pairs of flip-flops. He lives in Middlesex. A few months ago, Harry took a trip to Cornwall and you can now check out all the pictures from the trip on Facebook. Ninety percent of these photographs show Harry holding a surfboard.
The thing is, no one’s ever actually seen Harry surf…

The Quiet Type
Bill lives a quiet and contented life. He has a quaint home by the coast where he presides with his wife and two springer spaniels. Every morning before work Bill drives to his favorite beach with his two dogs, and if the waves look promising he will pull on his super-warm wetsuit and go for a surf. Bill doesn’t know any famous surfers or who is the current World champion. He doesn’t know which particular brand is in fashion at the moment or what new board technology the pros are using these days. He just likes the feeling of that first duck-dive into the icy cold water. Or the sensation of utter weightlessness as he rides a long, peeling left hander for what seems like an eternity, as the warm early morning light reflects off the crest. If he’s lucky, he’ll spot a seal curiously poking his head up just beyond the brake to check what the fuss is all about. Bill was never one for football and is happiest when floating in solitude, waiting for the next wave.

The Carpenter
Terry lives to surf. After eventually coming to the realization that he does in-fact need some sort of job in order to live, he chooses to work with his friend as a carpenter. He neither loves nor hates his profession. What is important is the flexibility it affords him. At various times in his working day he will call one of his crew of fellow surfers (all of who’s livelihoods are similarly flexible) for an update on the wave situation. If there is but a mere hint of a swell on the horizon, Terry will drop whatever he is doing, regardless of it’s importance, and get his arse down to the beach, riding whatever the sea has to offer within ten minutes of the call.

The Natural
Craig is cool. There’s no other way of describing him. Girls love him and guys want to be him. He is a talented surfer with an aggressive yet smooth style that reflects his personality. Craig is a creative individual, enjoying painting and photographing coastal scenes and believes that art, music and surfing are inherently linked (Craig also plays the acoustic guitar which always seems to be around whenever there is a campfire at the beach. In these situations he will yet further melt girls hearts with his soothing vocal tones and excellent rendition of Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson).

Loads to Sea and Doo

“Someone once said it’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on” Mark remarks as we sit on the bank, discussing the many and varied attributes of the BRP Sea-Doo. I keep quiet and nod along politely as I still want a go of that cool-looking silver one. However, the little voices in my head begin to discuss the validity of this claim, coming to the conclusion that there were at least three equally, if not more fun things that can be partaken in full attire: snowboarding, sky-diving and… actually, I believe the Sea-Doo has just snuck it’s way into the top three.

The Sea-Doo RXP-X 255 watercraft (or ‘really fast jet-ski’ to you and me) is certainly nippy. Capable of a top speed of 70mph, it can beat a Ferrari F450 to 50mph (just to clarify, that’s with the two vehicles driving on their respective surfaces. A Sea-Doo would definitely lose to a Ferrari – or a Ford Orion for that matter – on tarmac, largely due to its lack of wheels.) This is not the sort of machine that you would hire on a family holiday to lope around with the kids on the back. This thing means business; a point exemplified by the presence of James Bushell, 3 x World Champion jet racer and team rider for Sea-Doo. Matt gives a demonstration of the vehicle’s extensive capabilities, thrashing it from side to side and seemingly breaking the sound barrier, before handing over to the irritable ‘Health and Safety’ guy to individually talk us through the controls. “Now, press the throttle gently”, he instructs, sitting behind me on the craft. As is often the case, the Risk Assessment part of my brain is spectacularly overpowered by the part that wants to go really, really fast, and I am immediately scolded for pressing too hard on the throttle, narrowly avoiding a date with the trees.

Initially I am pretty terrible at controlling this watery beast. The steering is counter-intuitive, requiring acceleration into the turn. Slowing down whilst tentatively turning the handlebars is about as effective as politely suggesting to a Great White Shark that maybe he shouldn’t try and eat the baby seal that’s flapping away naively mere meters away on the water’s surface. Or trying to convince Kim Jong-Il to make love, not war. However, I soon realize the Sea-Doo’s unlimited turning capabilities, aided by BRP’s revolutionary stepped hull design that reduces drag and keeps the craft glued to the water. One moment the RXT iS (the first craft I had the pleasure of testing) is twisting and turning with more poise and balance than a ballerina, the next, it transforms into Usain Bolt, as it cuts through the air with an effortless eruption of power.

BRP are showcasing two main types of vehicles: ‘luxury performance’ and ‘performance’. The crème de la crème of the latter is the RXP-X 255 RS. It’s engine boasts 255 hp, reaching 0-50mph in 2.9 seconds. The X added to the already unnecessarily long name represents some performance-enhancing additions or Xtras as I like to call them. Ooh, I feel so dirty with my X-Handlebar, X-Finger Throttle and X-Traction Carpets and Seat. My carpets are so obscene they should be censored! Lazy marketing ploys aside, this thing really is Xtremely fast (ok I’ll stop that now.) What impresses me perhaps above all is the unexpectedly discreet engine. Gone are the obnoxiously loud, anti-social oil-spitting hooligans of the water – a reputation I have always seen as synonymous with jet-skis. These days, engines are so much more refined to the point where a Sea-Doo would struggle to disgruntle a retired couple.

As for the luxury range, I am not so enthralled. The GTX Limited iS 255, which, from the front reminds me of Kryten, the humanoid/robot from Red Dwarf, is, according to BRP, “simply the best there is”. For the luxurious and refined GTX, BRP have decided that using X as a prefix to the craft’s special features is too lewd for such a sophisticated vehicle, opting instead for the most impressive and intelligent letter in the alphabet - i. With it’s intelligent suspension system and throttle control, the GTX is incredible intuitive, almost predicting your actions before you make them. While there is a certain raw, untamed feel to the RXT, the GTX is unmatchable in comfort and control, cushioning each and every inconsistency in the water’s surface and providing an incredibly smooth ride.

The trouble is, I don’t need – no – I don’t want my jet ski to be a genius. I don’t want it to have the intelligence of a PhD student and I don’t want it to mollycoddle me like an over-bearing Mother. I want to thrash it around aggressively, maybe even giving it the occasional spank and asking it who it’s daddy is, and if I cross the line then it punishes me for my bad behavior, i.e. catapults me from the vehicle. On the GTX I never once felt like this was going to happen. The suspension is just so good that it constantly makes allowances for overly aggressive, shoddy driving (which sums up my style), but where’s the fun in that?

Never mind ‘most fun you can have with your clothes’, the RXP makes me want to ride it naked, accompanied by two bikini-clad playboy bunnies. The GTX however, makes me feel underdressed in anything less than a dinner suit.

The Way to San Jose

GREG:

Mark and I had fallen in love… with Guatemala, and it was with a heavy heart that we pushed on towards El Salvador, the smallest country of the trip. Like much of Central America, it is a state wounded by relentless civil warring and although currently at peace under the government of Antonio Saca, an air of conflict still lingered in the dusty air.

What immediately frustrated us about this new region, was the downturn in comprehension of our Spanish dialogue. Never before have I seen so many blank expressions than when Mark attempted to ask, for the fifth time, how much extra the suspect looking beef would cost with his breakfast. He eventually ended up with a separate plate solely containing meat, and his exasperation, as always, provided me with much amusement.

The gourmet of El Salvador is undisputedly the pupusa – double layered tortillas filled with re-fried beans and melted cheese – and now that we have left the country and this magnificent culinary invention behind, I miss them more than I miss my own family, and only slightly less than Mark misses Guinness.

The surprisingly smooth road took us from the north-west corner of the country, through Santa Ana and down the long, flat coastal road of Costa de Balsamo, where we finally reached sea-level and with it a drastic rise in temperature from the cool mountain air of the north. At this stage our focus was on our destination. We knew what we needed to do: 4 countries in 2 weeks. An average of 100km a day would suffice. No rest days, no slacking and no excuses. If we adhered to these principals, then we would make our destination of San Jose, Costa Rica in time for Mark’s homeward flight on the 21st.

With the sun on our face and the wind on our backs, we were crossing another border into Honduras, and yet another within the next 2 days into Nicaragua. A 20km stretch of dirt road greeted us as we ventured into our fourth Central American country. The dusty heated engulfed us and we struggled across the shifty surface, beginning to wonder whether we were destined to potter down this less than ideal road for the entire 350km stretch to the next border. Eventually though, the surface became more sympathetic towards our racing bikes and we pushed on to the town of Villanueva. Here we asked the proprietor of the only bar in town if we could sleep on his gravel floor for the night. He kindly obliged, giving Mark a grand tour of his humble establishment and showing him the revolver he kept in his belt. A vile, bloated brute who ate with his mouth wide open and kept his ample belly on display at all times, I pondered over how his wife (though not exactly a looker herself), had found the courage to perform the act of reproduction with such a beastly specimen. We shared an uncomfortable night with an orgy of mosquitoes whispering sweet nothings in our ear, and trudged away from Fattys bar, full of lethargy.

The abundance of poverty had become a familiar fixture throughout Central America, but Nicaragua seemed to demonstrate an even lower echelon of living standards. Houses were often built simply from tree branches and a black plastic sheet, and measured no more than three square metres. I shuddered to consider how these families coped during the rainy season, let alone the repercussions of Hurricane Mitch, which had caused unimaginable devastation in the north of the country.

In the town of Nagarote we became stuck in no-mans-land, the nearest hotel an unspecified distance away (we discovered long ago that if locals do not know where a place is, they will tell you whatever distance pops into their heads, making the ambiguity of responses vast and therefore extremely frustrating.) We decided to try our luck at the local Police Station and, after much official deliberation, El Heffe (the boss) took us under her wing and gave us a place to sleep for the night. It was the next morning during breakfast that we first caught a glimpse of the mysterious solo cyclist. Excited to see another tourer, we hurried to finish our gallo pinto (the local staple consisting simply of rice n beans), and peddled on towards the capital city, Managua, where we eventually crossed paths with the lone rider. We learned that Lego, a Spanish guy from Pamplona, was planning to cycle all the way down to Argentina, having begun his journey in our beloved Guatemala. Lego was softly spoken, with an excellent grasp of English. He had a tranquil disposition while simultaneously exuding an enthusiasm and eagerness for discovery.

We had decided to catch a boat from Granada, across Lake Nicaragua to the east side of the country and Lego, upon hearing our plans, opted to join us. The rigmarole of getting our bikes on the boat was arduous, removing every single item including water bottles, due to a warning by a local that they would mysteriously disappear if left unattended. It turned out to be sound advice, as we looked round to find the very same guy that had given us this inside info, attempting to make off with our belongings. He did warn us.

As for the boat journey itself, 15 hours of watery hell would be a fair description. Crammed into the small interior of cattle class, shoulder to shoulder like pickled gherkins, the heat was unbearable. On my right was a woman holding a baby that screamed incessantly and kept grabbing my arm that displayed a suspiciously contagious-looking rash. When I could take no more I decided to retire to the aisle to catch 30 winks. What I got was 30 kicks – in the head – not to mention numerous suitcases, boxes and sacks of oranges dragging across my face. Total concentration was fixed upon not vomiting (although the baby next to me did not seem to share my determination, allowing chunks to flow freely and without prejudice), as the choppy water rocked us to and fro, more closely resembling the Atlantic Ocean than a fresh-water lake. My seat was now occupied from my stint in the aisle, so I tried my luck out on deck with the cargo, eventually finding a resting place next to a mound of bananas. My head rested directly above the engine so that it felt like a hole was slowly being drilled into my temple. I awoke to the sight of a bearded Nicaraguan urinating off the side of the boat, within 3ft of my head.

The ultimate objective for taking the boat in the first place was to make a quick and easy crossing into Los Chile, Costa Rica, and the hellish journey would have been worthwhile had we not taken a wrong turn down a dirt road for 15km, reaching an illegal river crossing reserved solely for the export of oranges. Day wasted.

By midday the next day we were finally at the Cost Rican border, after being forced to take another boat across the River Rio San Juan from Los Chiles, where we had stayed the night at the local fire station. We had made it. The challenge was Canada to Costa Rica and we had just entered the latter. The feeling - although slightly diluted by our new-found resentment towards all forms of water transportation – was tremendous.

The light was fading, as the three of us began peddling through the country known as the Switzerland of Central America, due to its political neutrality and love of yodeling (the latter is totally unfounded). Our surroundings were a mixture of verdant green and Ayers Rock red, and new and colourful tropical birds graced our ears with unfamiliar concertos. Night fell and we found ourselves in a small village, the focus of which was a lush green football pitch overlooked by a royal blue church. We gave thanks for such a perfect camping spot and cooked dinner on Lego’s incredible portable stove, expertly built from two beer cans, before retreating to the tent for the night. We awoke in the early hours to a light pattering on the roof, closely followed by the thunderous applause of torrential rain. The heavens had opened. Lego chose this point to inform us that his tent was not strictly waterproof, as puddles began to form beside our heads. Mark, in denial of the whole situation, attempted to sleep through our watery crisis, only stirring when the puddles had reached ear-level. We spent the rest of the morning underneath the church entrance, wet and miserable, chasing cockroach after wretched cockroach out of our bags. No one had told us it was still the rainy season in Costa Rica.

And so, sodden to our skins, we attacked the mountainous terrain one slippery slope at a time; Lego hunched over his handlebars, fighting his way up the steep inclines, his latimus dorsi accented from years of rock-climbing; Mark, head down, teeth gritted, using his favoured technique of focusing on the immediate road beneath his tyres and not the climb ahead, to avoid demoralization; all three of us wondering where our next cup of coffee would come from, and when the rain would desist.

If you have the pleasure/misfortune of knowing Mark, you will have noticed that Angry Mark surfaces anytime he is hungry. Being on the road together for so long puts you in perfect synchrony, invariably meaning that if one is hungry, then so is the other. My personal reaction to hunger is a complete mental shut-down, making even the simplest decision equivocal to quantum mechanics. This increases Angry Mark’s infuriation and so the cycle continues (no pun intended). It was 4pm on the 19th December, one hour before dark and we had just ridden past a sign telling us that San Jose was still 50km away. Perhaps the close proximity of our final destination was having a psychological effect on my compadre. Mark looked drained and was clearly hungry. Unusually, my state did not reflect his, and Lego and I were sprightly and alert. 50km in an hour is physically impossible on a bicycle, but for some reason, Lego seemed to think that we would make it that night. I enjoyed his blind enthusiasm and decided, instead of correcting him with common sense, to jump on the delusional band wagon. This infuriated Mark (as I knew it would), but he was too exhausted to argue. One hour later we were engulfed in darkness, riding down the busiest road in Costa Rica with no lights. My idiocy astonished even me, but it was almost worth risking our lives to see the grumpy northerner at his best for one last time.

In case you hadn’t guessed yet, we made it. Despite the anti-climactic nature of our arrival in the dark – tired and hungry with no obvious place to stay, we had crossed the finish line. The next day, after sleeping in the Red Cross car park in the centre of town, we went to the barbers for a much needed shave (I have never felt so manly), before parting company with our Spanish friend. Then ensued the comical packing of Mark’s war-torn bike, and the ceremonial exchange of literature. All that was left was to sit in reflection, drinking dark rum and smoking our victory Nicaraguan cigars. We summarized our plans for the future; potential trips, career choices and ambitions – subjects that had been at the fore-front of our thoughts and conversations for the past four months. Now it was finally time to actualize those plans.

I lay awake, despite the ill-effects of the previous night’s rum. It was 5.30am but the deluge of thoughts pin-balling around my head would keep me from sleeping anymore that day. My friend and riding partner had just begun his journey back to England in time for Christmas, and I felt distinctly alone. Over the last 4 months we had shared everything; every elation and adversity, every ache and pain, every crumb of food and cent of Cordoba, peso or dollar. We had reached a high-context level of communication that meant we often knew what the other would say before they said it, and the quantity of catchphrases and inside jokes was infinite. We had spent every second together for 16 weeks, yet by some miracle, I did not want to kill the guy.

I thought about all we had been through; the steep learning curve in bicycle know-how, the vast sandy beaches of Oregon, the redwoods of Northern California, the lavish glamour of LA and the bohemia of Santa Cruz and San Diego; the culture shock of Mexico with its dry, suffocating heat and dangerous roads, illness and exhaustion, hospitality and hostility – not least the near-theft of our beloved vehicles. We had ridden past some of the most beautiful coastline in the Americas, over the volcanic terrain of Northern Guatemala and through tropical rainforests in Costa Rica.

We had experienced the unlimited potential for kindness and compassion in human-beings, constantly incredulous at the lengths that people would go to help a couple of complete strangers. We listened to a plethora of different views and perspectives from the eclectic mix of individuals we met along the way. Some of these opinions we dismissed, some will stick with us for the rest of our lives. We learnt about ourselves and each other, knowing exactly what made the other tick; when they would need motivating and when they would just need to be left alone; when to force ourselves to carry on and when to recognise our limitations and concede defeat. Everyday we were challenged – physically and psychologically – and the greater the challenge, the more we grew as individuals. Nothing in my young life has had such a profound influence on my principles and imperatives for the future. Few things are more conducive to reflection than cycling 100km a day.

I can think of no better way to appreciate the intimate details of a place than by bicycle. In a motorized vehicle one may appreciate A, then travel to B. On a bicycle the very concept of A and B is academic. Travel is slowed to a pace where one can appreciate every single inconsistency in the road and subtle changes in landscape, culture and even atmosphere. On no other form of transport would we have had the opportunity to meet so many local people, allowing us to get a very real insight into subtle cultural quirks that simply would not have been accessible in the more tourist-friendly areas. Our journey seemed to flow like a river, steadily working its way through the landscape, never rushed, yet constantly on the move. The way life should be.

MARK:

This final blog has been on my mind for sometime now, and as I sit down to write I find my situation has changed somewhat. Gone are the evenings spent scribbling by torchlight, trying to squeeze in a few paragraphs before being driven to my sleeping bag my hungry mosquitoes.

I arrived back in England on the 22nd December, ecstatic to see Sam despite her red and runny nose which seemed to be sported by the majority of the British population. As I had suspected, this was the perfect time of year to arrive home regardless of the cold. In addition to seeing all of my friends and family, I was presented with feasts of the kind which I had hallucinated about during bouts of madness in the Baja desert. As I had also anticipated, my powers of memory and description proved sadly lacking when trying to conjure a worthy answer to the often asked question; ‘So, was it good then?’

‘Bloody brilliant’, I answer. Things happen when you travel on a bicycle. Over the last 100 days we have slept on starlit Mexican beaches, by a railway line, on a yacht, on the gravel floor of a Nicaraguan bar (in which UB40 was blasted from a jukebox to the small hours), on a building site by a ferry port, in a lakeside hammock surrounded by volcanoes, in a Guatemalan family home where 4 generations slept, and in a beachfront villa owned by a flamboyant Mexican motorbike enthusiast.

I have lost a tent while running away from a dog. We have wrestled our bikes from the pick-up truck of 4 would-be thieves. I have watched the sun set over deserted cliffs feeling like the king of the world. I have laid in the roadside dirt under the baking sun next to a roadkill dog, unable to move through sheer exhaustion.

Things happen…

Looking back on the trip, the thing I am most proud of is that we have followed through on what we said. We have translated words into action, and the feeling of empowerment arising from that is enormous. Crazy plans now seem more possible than ever! I look forward to getting back on a bike with Greg in the future, and can think of no better companion for an expedition. Well done mate.

I am also incredibly touched by the actions of people at home. To everyone who helped out with any of the exercise bike days last summer, anyone who turned up to a curry night or a cabaret, anyone who read the blog, made a donation, or sent a text or email of encouragement – thank you so much. Thank you to my family for their incredible efforts, whether organising cabaret nights, inspiring pupils in assemblies, or selling wrist bands, and thank you to Sam for selflessly encouraging me to finish the trip when we were both feeling as low as we could be. I would also like to thank everyone at Plan in Guatemala and the UK; the people at Candelaria Yalicar for welcoming us so warmly, everyone who offered us kindness on the road, and Muddy Fox Bikes for helping 2 rookies get on their bikes in the first place.

So, how was it? - Bloody brilliant…

Celebrity Hobos

GREG:

From San Pedro we took a bus with a couple of fellow Brits, James and Sarah, to Chichicastenango where the Sunday market was in full flow. Get past the initial excitement of such a rich tapestry of new sensual experiences, and the market was a prime example of some of the abject poverty that plagues the majority of the populus. One of the hardest things to take was the sight of little girls no older than 6 or 7 offering us homemade nicnacs that not even the most dedicated of hourders could possibly find a place for. As Mark observed it was glorified begging.

The past few days had frustrated me. An uncomfortable feeling churning away in the pit of my stomach that progressively grew as our travels continued. No, I hadnt eaten a bad taco, it was a frustration born of realisation - a realisation that there was no quick fix to the very real problems that faced the country we had very quickly fallen in love with. The potential exists for a reasonably successful economy. The natural resources are there, yet because of a minute (and I mean minute) group of greedy, power hungry elitists, life is a constant struggle for many Guatemalans. Race is one of the big issues. Over 70% of the population are Mayan, yet there is not one Mayan representative in a government made up solely of Latinos. There is much contempt held for the Mayan people by those in power, demonstrated by a story we heard about the Mayor of San Pedro, who had been refused entry to the Marriott Hotel in Guatemala City for an important conference, as he was wearing traditional Mayan attire. Such is the isolation of the people from their so called leaders. The problems the country faces may be solved by a sense of moral and social duty but alas, greed had prevailed amd it was up to non-governmental organizations such as Plan to compensate for this most grotesque of sins.

MARK:

We were greeted in Coban by 4 Plan representatives and were happy to throw our bikes in the back of the pickup to drive to the school, as the 8km ride we had 'calculated' turned out to be 85km, the last 17 of which was on a tiny dirt road. Candelaria Yalicar school was truly off the beaten track. Although unsure of what to expect, and prepared to visit a empty school as we had been informed that the pupils were on holiday, Greg and I were clearly excited as we approached the village. What awaited us was beyond our wildest dreams - the school grounds were teeming with children but also grown men and women, summoned as was the village custom, by the majestic call of a conch shell. (We later discovered that the man with the shell was named Don Juan, former mayor and respected elder, who honoured us by allowing us to make our own stuttering, clumsy attempts at conch-blowing.) I simply did not believe that the gathering could be for our arrival, but we were introduced to the headteacher and community officials and ushered to a seat at the front of the crowd. Among several speeches was one delivered in Spanish by yours truly, as you can imagine one of the oratory performances of all time. Fortunately the majority of the crowd speak a regional Mayan language other than Spanish, so they may not have spotted every mistake. Then the musical numbers started, and following a rousing song from a group of 4 year olds, there were calls for the foreigners to sing. How could we refuse? For some reason 'Stand By Me' popped into my head, so Greg went for the bassline while I launched into the vocals. Singing quality? 3/10. Comedy value of 2 gringos hopping around like fools? Priceless. Although the less said about our 'In the jungle, the mighty jungle' encore the better...

It was truly amazing to be welcomed in such a manner, and to see the entire community gather together was humbling. However, the best part about the day was seeing a group of people, from the village and from Plan, who cared about education and had clear, passionate ideas about how to improve things. Some of the money raised through our trip will build 2 new classrooms, which will be used for teaching children aged 12 and over. At present, in this region of Guatemala, only 19 of 600 schools provide education past the age of 12. With the new improvements, Candelaria Yalicar will become the 20th. If school ends at 12, how can a child become empowered to make a choice regarding their future? How can they even know that they have a choice?

GREG:

The focus of our thoughts became fixated upon our visit to the school, as our impending arrival drew ever closer. We were excited to finally observe first hand, what the considerable amount of money raised would contribute towards and we were not disappointed. Despite being informed that the school was on vacation for the next month, what greeted us upon our arrival was far from the empty institute we had expected. The whole village of Candelaria had gathered on the school grounds to greet us!

It amused me how for the past 3 and a half months we had been nothing more than glorified hobos and yet suddenly, we were being held in esteem, and treated like celebrities. I enjoy a small ego massage as much as the next guy but this was something else - a situation in which I felt distinctly uncomfortable. However as the morning unfolded with speeches by the heads of the village, singing and dancing from some of the kids (the dance, performed by 2 girls was more of a side to side shuffle, reminiscent of the embarrassed bopping I used to do at the start of school discos before I'd warmed up and started busting out some of my trademark moves), and a performance by Mark and I that made the ladies swoon, the formal nature of the event had all but disappeared.

We were able to interview some of the children, who had been selected by their peers to be representatives of the school, and spoke to us ingenuously about their aspirations for the future; aspirations that seemed to have been instilled by some of the excellent projects already undertaken by Plan over the past few years. This wasn't a bunch of Americans or British people coming in and imposing their views, it was Guatemalans helping their own people get a decent crack at life - an opportunity to fulfill potential that would otherwise fallen by the wayside. Every child deserves, at the very least, a basic education so that they are in a position to make their own choices, and not be destined to fill potholes or beg from rich tourists for the rest of their lives.

As for the school improvements, they are in the latter stages of planning and should begin in January, exciting additions to a classroom that holds 80 children at once (and I remember the uproar from parents when there were 30 kids in my class at primary school!).

We would like to thank everybody who has taken the time to donate to this cause, and to those who have yet to contribute, I hope that our account of this incredible experience will encourage you to do so. Plan International is doing an absolutely fantastuc job in this community and many more like it and we are honoured to be part of such an important organisation.

Miles travelled - 3,616. Next stop San Jose!

Guatemala

MARK:

We rode on through the southern Mexican states, Guerrero, Chiapas, Oaxaca, and eventually the end of this giant country was in sight. We rode with Mike and Jen for over a week, easily enough time to identify each others quirks and foibles and to become comfortable enough to point them out. Greg and I landed a few bargain hotel rooms with our well-honed 'good cop, bad cop' routine (1 pound pppn!) and Mike and Jen introduced us to a culinary world away from plain refried beans and tostadas. Despite our shared passion for huevos al gusto (eggs how you like) at breakfast with stacks of handmade tortillas, which wasn't conducive to an early start, we made good time, though not without incident. I am deeply suspicious of every roadside dog, so when one particularly evil-looking pooch charged after my juicy calves, teeth exposed, I pedalled away faster than you can say 'rabies vaccination'. Unfortunately so did Mike, and in the resulting collision I tasted tarmac. Luckily unhurt, and spared by the evil dog, we rode on, so it wasn't until we stopped for a drink 20 minutes later that I realised my bike was looking distinctly lopsided - my rear pannier was missing. Everyone except me found this very amusing, and assumed the bag would still be lying by the road where I had fallen. No such luck. The logical guess would be that the bag was taken by an opportunistic truck driver, but I still believe it was taken by the dog as the final part of his cunning masterplan. I hope he's comfy in our tent.

2 days later, Greg and I livened up an afternoon ride by seizing the perfect moment to implement 'Operation Lilywhite', a scheme which Greg had been plotting for some time. On a quiet road, we pedalled ahead of Mike and Jen, building up a healthy lead. Round a secluded bend we stopped and stripped naked. We remounted the bikes, leather saddles smooth against our buttocks, and rode slowly. When Mike and Jen caught up they were treated to 2 of the whitest arses ever to grace a Mexican highway, although they were less interested than the taxi driver who followed Greg a little too closely for half a mile before overtaking.

As we had been warned, at the border we were harassed by would-be thieves masquerading as immigration officials and sporting home-made ID badges, pestering us as we rode. A steep climb from the border was an omen of what to expect from the Guatemalan terrain, but the long, smooth descent that followedallowed us to gaze at our new surroundings. Distant volcanoes, ancient turrets marking endless tectonic battles, pierced through and rose above the white shawl of cloud. People smiled and waved a cheery 'buenos tardes' as if pleasantly surprised to see an old friend.

GREG:

Our first experience of Guatemala and its people came from Julio on our very first day in the country. Julio kindly invited us into his home, insisting that we be fed and watered, and offering us a bed for the night. Politely accepting this hospitable gesture, we quickly settled into the Central American way of life, which consists largely of sitting on the sidewalk, casually observing the steady stream of passers by, exchanging friendly greetings and the ocasional relaxed conversation. Children played in the cobbled street, their excited chatter periodically drowned out by the sound of a horn, or the echoing bellows of a megaphone advertising, well, something or other. The villagers flitted from house to house, making it impossible to determine who lived where, not least Julio's place, whose kitchen seemed to double up as a tortilleria with his Grandmother very much at the forefront of the operation. As for Julio himself, we deduced that he was some sort of Delboy-esque trader. At first Mark and I assumed that the plastic Christmas tree which emerged from his pickup was being erected for decorative purposes, but it soon became apparent that San Rafael's very own Mr Trotter had an agenda, luring in passing observers with the spectacle of early festivity.'Alright Ju-boy, nice lookin' tree you got there.''Nice? This aint just nice, this is the exact replica of the christmas tree present at the birth of christ. Now these usually retail at 100 quetzals a piece but for you, 50, and I'll throw in a box of lights, can't say fairer than that.'Despite his best efforts, Julio failed to shift the plastic pine and brought it - along with a broken fridge and 2 car doors - to the bigger town of San Marcos the next day. We wished him luck and set off for Xela (Quetzaltenango), as I thought about the slightly glum prospect of not spending Christmas with my family for the first time.

MARK:

As we made cycled almost vertically out of San Marcos, searching in vain for a lorry moving slowly enough to 'surf', we were passed by 2 men on a moped, filming our struggle up the hill with a large video camera. The men turned out to be reporters for local Guatemalan news, so, in Spanish, I gave an interview about the trip. We may not have made Look North or London Toight, but I was the sweaty, mumbling star of Quetzaltenango that night!

I enjoyed our brief stay in Xela - the feeling of being nestled in the narrow streets in the heart of the city, the chill in the air which reminded us of our altitude and manifested itself in the resolute nature of the locals. People huddled round tiny tables, sweet coffee, eggs, rice and tortillas providing an internal warmth until the sun could infuse through the city. We were pleasantly ignored and accepted, with a simple nod of silent acknowledgement reminiscent of a lone Englishman, ale in hand, sheltering from the weather on the bar of a rural pub.

GREG:

The 2 days that followed brought some of the most gruelling, yet spectacular riding of the trip, culminating in the breathtaking view of Lake Atitlan, a natural wonder produced 850,000 years ago by a volcanic eruption that formed a 300m chasm in the landscape and shaped the several new volcanoes that now surround the lake. Never have I been so awestruck by such a vast expanse of open space. The air between us and the lake seemed infinite, as if the water below was merely an illusion. We would soon find out as we began the 20 switchback descent, thinking of the countless cycling enthusiasts that would be green with envy if they could see us at that moment. Mark whooped with joy as he flew down the straights and tackled each switchback with a proficiency not reflecting the gross imbalance of a bicycle missing its left pannier. Meanwhile, I was hot on his tail, elation only matched by a genuine fear for my life as my brakes had decided to call it a day, forcing me to resort to jolting my bodyweight back and forth to try and curb the bikes ferverous momentum. We slept that night in hammocks by the edge of the lake, and at such a high altitude, my arctic sleeping bag finally came into it's own. For once I wasn't jealous of Mark's less thermic 'Snugpak', as I looked across the next morning to see a pair of oversized lips peeking out from a shivering cocoon.

We couldn't leave without hiking at least one of the volcanoes and so left early doors on Saturday morning to scale Volcan San Pedro. Unfortunately the view from the summit at 3000m wasn't as spectacular as it could have been, due to the complete cloud coverage, but at least our legs constantly screamed in pain for the next 4 days. Totally worth it.

Bicycle Banditos

After 4 days of self imposed bedrest in Mazatlan, we were fit enough to get back on the bike. As is often the case, hindsight (and a return to health) was necessary for us to appreciate how ill we had been, and how this had affected our morale. In the days that followed we began to warm to Mexico as a country, feeling more comfortable in our surroundings and enjoying the experiences of this huge and diverse country.

One unique cultural event was the celebration of el Dia de los Muertes (Day of the Dead) on November 2nd. Mexicans remember loved ones who have passed away not by dressing in black, not in hushed tones, but with a celebration engulfing the whole town. The graveyard is transformed with the invigorating colour of flowers, elaborate wreaths testament to the care of each family. Outside the walls, stalls sell cold beers, corn and tacos. I had to fight the British urge to whisper reverently as I walked through the memorials. Although the attitude to death was difficult to adjust to, it was fantastic to see whole families united in remembrance and celebration.

Sunday 9th November - Our legs were heavy as we rode south from Manzanillo. Despite covering few miles that morning, we welcomed the sight of a lakeside restaurant and the excuse for a cold Coke in the shade. We locked the bikes together and descended the steep stone steps to the lake, where tiny fishing boats sauntered across the surface, entire families on the shore awaiting the catch. The half hour break inevitably turned into 2 hours, but we eventually mustered the energy to leave. Reaching the top of the steps, our brains were slow to react to what our eyes could clearly see - both bikes, complete with all our worldly possessions, being hauled onto the back of a pickup truck by 4 Mexican men! We ran to the truck, surging with adrenaline, and physically hauled our bikes from the pickup, dumping them unceremoniously but safely away from the vehicle, whose driver attempted in vain to reverse away. The bikes were still locked together - this combined load proved cumbersome enough to delay the would-be thiefs. We stood guarding our precious bikes, exchanging bi-lingual insults, caught between anger and shock. One of the men, clearly the scummiest of the scumbags, a walking offense to humanity, persisted to shout abuse at us and our 'madres'. Thankfully this disgrace was driven away, though not before drawing the blade of his knife, threatening us, and aggressively ripping open his white vest. Looking back, we thought he probably regretted this, as he would have to buy a new vest, and noted that he should probably do some pectoral and ab work before repeating such a gesture. Pumped with rage, tempered with relief, and barely able to comprehend how close we had come to being '2 guys walking to Costa Rica' we suddenly saw 2 cyclists roll up, the first we had seen in Mexico! We gradually relaxed as we related our encounter to Mike and Jen (Canadians on an epic bike trip to South America). Mike's suggestion seemed the best plan - 'ride 20km with us and let's get a beer inside you!'

As it happened, we managed to get many beers inside us, courtesy of a biker (of the motorised kind) named Roberto. Roberto had ridden past our new Canadian friends the day before and made no hesitation in flamboyantly inviting us to his 'Gaudi' style beach front villa. In his eyes we were all part of a 2-wheeled brotherhood, grandly coining the motto '2 wheels, 1 world', later adding '1 heart to this sentiment after several more Coronas. Despite initial concerns that we may have gatecrashed a Mexican Hell's Angels meeting, the surreal gathering of English, Canadian and Mexican resulted in a hearty drinking session. As we sat in the villa's rooftop jacuzzi, Roberto emerged with a giant Union Jack flag! Greg and I were inspired to scale the walls to deliver a merry version of God Save The Queen, proudly patriotic in our dripping wet cycling shorts.

Roberto's hospitality (and our hangovers) gave us the excuse we needed to avoid riding, spending a day wallowing in lazy relaxation. He confirmed his standing as an incredible host by treating us to fresh, home made guacamole for dinner, and a parting breakfast of huevos (eggs) the following morning. We were sad to leave, but the immortal cry of '1 world, 2 wheels' echoed in our ears...

We rode with Mike and Jen, enjoying the company of a larger group as we pedalled along one of the most beautiful stretches of Pacific coastline in Mexico. We discovered beaches that I was sure only existed on movie screens, camping under palapas (thatched palm roofs) just feet away from where powerful surf pounded the golden sands. One night in Maruata, one such paradise, we walked along the beach in the hope of seeing sea turtles arriving to lay eggs, as Greg had spotted tracks and a freshly hatched egg earlier that day. The full moon illuminated the sands like a giant torch, and we soon saw a dark shape emerge from the ocean. A seal? A turtle! We watched in silence as she dragged her huge shell onto the sand, seemingly exhausted, but summoning the energy to dig a whole in which to lay eggs. This was more than we could have hoped for, but further up the beach we stumbled across a small fenced area, where 2 Mexican girls monitored eggs for research. Some of the eggs were hatching, baby turtles ready to embark on their pilgrimage to the ocean, and we were invited to hold them first! With a turtle in the palm of my hand, I knew we had been fortunate enough to discover something special, a lifelong memory.

After 4 nights of immaculate camping on the beach, it was a shock to find ourselves in the scruffy town of La Mira as darkness crept in. We were informed that the only hotel in town was in fact a motel, which Mike informed us meant that here in Mexico, clients pay by the hour. This was confirmed when we saw that each room had a garage next to it, fitted with a curtain to ensure total anonymity for vehicle and driver! Greg and I were happy to sleep on the garage floor, so we bartered a cheap deal for 9 hours sleep for the 4 of us. After a few beers and baskets of steaming, fresh handmade tortillas at the 24 hour cafe next door, we returned to our anonymous garage for a cracking kip - though I had to wonder what the lady who owned the motel though of us...

I will close the blog today with a message of thanks. Throughout the trip, during moments of exhaustion, weakness and frustration, I think of the huge number of people who have supported us and wished us well. An incredible example of this was the Clapp Trapp Cabaret night organised by my Aunty Jen last Friday - a brillant evening, and a very tidy sum towards Candelaria Yalicar school! Thankyou to all those who performed, attended, especially Jen and all of our familes who have been so supportive throughout! It really keeps us going when bums are sore!

We should be in Guatemala in a week, so check in for pictures of the school to see where the money is going.

Not The Ideal Guests

A prevalent theme of the last blog (if one were to try and arrange our fortnightly ramblings into some sort of discernible structure) was the humbling kindness and hospitality we have received on the trip thus far. Thankfully, and despite the language barrier, this generosity has followed us into Mexico. However, as you will read, we have been far from the ideal guests. Upon entering the bustling chaos that is Tijuana, our questions of whether the cultural transition would be gradual or instantaneous were immediately answered. Barraged by alien sounds, all muddled at different frequencies like a badly tuned radio, we were temporarily stunned by sensory overload, taking time to compose ourselves with the first (of many) tacos, a food that almost wholly dominates the country's culinary portfolio. We found it incredible that this famous border, in essence merely an imaginary line, a human creation, can dictate such a sudden transformation in language, food, apparel and ambience. We had arrived. This was very much Part 2 of our journey.

After hearing horror stories of Route 1 of Baja California, the only highway that exists on the peninsula, we were more than a little apprehensive. One guy we met in America told us he had been forced off the road 63 times in one day while riding the Baja. We soon discovered this to be a huge exaggeration (or a demonstration of the guy's terrible balance), but that's not to say riding conditions were perfect. With only one lane and no shoulder, cars - and more worryingly buses and lorries - would find it preferable to banish a little cyclist from the tarmac than career headlong into an oncoming vehicle. Or, God forbid, slow down. At one point Mark became way too familiar with an overtaking school bus, that decided to give him a wee nudge into the cactus strewn gravel below.

Searching for potential camp spots in Mexico lacks the reassuring certainty of its American neighbour, and road signs that suggest such a place often turn out to be fictitious. But we were pleasantly surprised to find a 'Playa Publica' sign (a public beach suitable for camping) in Rosarito. Then night came. The happy families dispersed and were replaced by several more unscrupulous members of society, who began taking an unhealthy interest in our nice shiny bikes. In an effort to make ourselves scarce, we began pushing our bikes up the beach, but when we realised we were being followed we called it a night and got the hell out of there. Fortunately we found a hostel (less a hostel, more like a patch of land containing a few caravans) where the proprietor allowed us to pitch our tent for the night. This awoke us to the reality that this was going to be no stroll in the park, and sure enough over the next few days, we jostled with mental and physical challenges of the like we had never experienced. The midday heat was such that roadside fires would sporadically ignite throughout the day, and like a holey bucket, our pores leaked with perspiration, quicker than we could rehydrate with the questionable Mexican water. The sparse, arid desert allowed no room for error when it came to water rationing, and tested our resolve with long winding mountains that seemed to bring us even closer to the sun. We decided to treat ourselves one particularly hot lunchtime to a refreshing bowl of Bran Flakes purchased from a dusty roadside store, and as we greedily devoured our dairy filled feasts, all the while admiring the impressive collection of skulls and lassoos hanging from the walls, we thought of home.

As our desert days eeked by, the enormity of the Baja dawned on us and we reluctantly realised that at the pace we were going, we would have no chance of reaching San Jose by Mark's flight date of the 21st. We had grossly underestimated the sheer land mass of Mexico and if we were not careful, the situation would manifest itself into a mad dash through Central America - most notably the Guatemalan school - to get there on time. On top of this, we had both begun to fall ill, a situation that worsened and eventually came to a head over the coming week. Moving past the hopelessly barren landscape by bus at speeds we were no longer accustomed to, a feeling of nagging regret came over us like a virus as our senses seemed to dull to a world we had become so in touch with.

We arrived in La Paz, the air-conditioned bus ride seeming almost too simple. La Paz is clearly developed for the tourist crowd, but is a beautiful city nonetheless. We enjoyed an invigorating dip in the transparent, glassy waters of the bay, wondering why we were the only swimmers in such a perfect location. Apparently La Paz is also famed for its seafood, but we enjoyed a customary dinner of noodles and refried beans on a beachfront bench as the sun set.

The plan to get the ferry to Mazatlan was thwarted when we were informed that this particular ferry was 'being fixed'. When we enquired how long this might take we were given the vaguest of answers - 'maybe a month, maybe more.' In England this would exasperate one to the point of throwing your hat to the floor and stamping like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket. But this is Mexico...

We caught the ferry to Topolobampo, which the lady kindly informed us was only 5 or 6 hours drive north of Mazatlan - 4 or 5 days ride then! We rode to the port, again stumbling across a beautiful bay for a swim. A local was much amused by Greg's victory in the 'underwater handstand' competition. He lived in a tiny shack on the beach, and he pointed out his friend who was busy snorkelling to collect shellfish for lunch.

We docked on the mainland at 10pm, and persuaded a security guard to let us camp on the lorry depot/building site/rubbish dump by the port. Although we were eaten alive by insects, once inside the bubble of our tent we slept like logs, and awoke to ride south.

The Mexican mainland is more green and verdant than the Baja, and the towns more frequent, with an energy lacking in the more isolated desert settlements. We enjoyed the ride through gently rolling hills, and had the good fortune to meet Hugo, a Mexican who invited us to his home in Guamuchil. Hugo and his family treated us to a feast - squid and giant prawns fresh from the ocean, eaten with fingers and dipped in chilli, salt and lime, washed down with the refreshing and ubiquitous Tecate beer. Tortillas followed, hot from the pan and heartily filled with potatoes, beans and cheese. We conversed in a strange but effective combination of Hugo's broken English and our broken Spanish. Any silences were filled by Greg pulling a gruesome face at the children, which never failed to send them into hysterics.

Unfortunately, over the next couple of days our health deteriorated. On a demoralisingly long, straight road, seemingly devoid of settlements (the last sign indicated 180km until the next gas station) Mark's speed was reduced almost to walking pace as the afternoon sun beat down. We were overjoyed to see a sign for a hotel in a small village 3km from the main road. Yet again the sign proved fictitious, and it was clear that no hotel had, did, or ever would exist here. Mark was reduced to lying prone on the pavement while Greg combined Spanglish and mime to try and find a place to camp. Our saviour was Antonio, one of several men seated at a roadside drinks stall, who invited us to his home for the night. As mentioned at the start of this blog we were not the ideal guests. Our digestive issues meant we were both compelled to ask to use the facilities sooner rather than later, and in a very small house it proved difficult to disguise any rogue smells. Nonetheless, we were invited to sit down for dinner. The menu, predictably, was spicy meat and refried beans - guaranteed to get the stomachs churning. We ate, remembering to rub our stomachs and make appropriate 'mmm' noises. At this point Mark was feverish and close to using his tortillas as a pillow and passing out at the dinner table. After a detailed showing of every photograph Antonio owned, we collapsed in a bed, which our host had insisted we sleep in rather than set up the tent in the garden. He may now regret this decision. We lay in the bed, sweating yet shaking, finally realizing that yes, we were officially ill. Greg confirmed this beyond doubt by vomiting gloriously on the bedsheets and surrounding floor. Despite his valiant midnight cleaning efforts the smell was unmistakable. The morning was awkward to say the least. My Spanish phrase book strangely omits the phrase, 'I'm very sorry, I have vomited all over your bed.' Antonio treated the incident with admirable good humour, even driving us to the pharmacy. Our health and spirits were at an all-time low and the only option was to get to a town with a hotel to rest and recover. Back on the bikes then...we wobbled along for almost an hour on the monotonous highway, covering a pitiful 6 miles. The next town was still 90 km away. Greg collapsed in the shade of a bush, while Mark stood doubled over, hands on knees, raising the energy to thumb for a lift whenever a truck came past. The alternative was to fry by the roadside. After 2 hours, a pick up stopped. We were ecstatic to find out that Alberto, the driver, spoke excellent English, had an air-conditioned truck, and could drop us in the next town (Mazatlan). Antonio was exceptionally helpful and kind and we hope to meet again on the road south.

This brings us to Mazatlan, where we now write. We have rested and laid off the spicy tacos, and have in fact done very little except lounge in a cool hotel room, enjoying Los Simpsons in Spanish. We hope the fevers and vomits are behind us for good, it's time to get back on the road.

Big Sur... Twice

During the last 2 weeks we have had the privelage of meeting a fascinating multitude of characters. All have welcomed us into their homes with a sincere and heartwarming hospitality. The beauty of life on the road is that you seem to be hurled suddenly into new situations, cast ashore each night in a new resting place like driftwood at the mercy of a mischevious wave. We play a tiny bit-part role on the grand stage of people's lives, returning to the familiar road as the sun rises. This potentially lonely existence has been made wonderful by those who were previously strangers greeting us as friends. Our story is influenced and inspired by every one.

We arrived in Santa Cruz, a very liberal town - so liberal in fact that one local described the abundance of hobos as a positive attribute, explaining that they were 'made to feel very welcome here'. We rode into town on our wounded vehicles, back wheels slithering like asthmatic snakes. After inspection by the guy in the bike store, he pointed out what we probably should have noticed some miles back - at least 4 spokes were snapped. His diagnosis was clear - brand new wheels were needed if we were to have any chance of making it through Mexico. $350 each please. Bugger...

The easiest thing to do would be to get out the credit cards and let them get on with it. But we both started the trip as self-confessed bicycle rookies, and didn't want to remain ignorant. We always said that what we didn't know we would learn along the way. Also...we're both tight arses. Our prayers were answered when we heard the legend of the Bike Church, a workshop where locals came to fix their bikes with the help of volunteer mechanics. Despite being closed, a kind mechanic said there was room at the inn for 2 weary travellers. We took a pew, he opened up the good book of bicycle repairs and imparted his knowledge. We departed 2 hours later with dirty hands and mended wheels, grinning with satisfaction.

We pedalled south, eager to experience the renouned beauty and challenging clifftop climbs which Big Sur promised. After destroying a loaf of bread, jar of peanut butter and a small bunch of bananas in our customary lunchtime routine, we rode hard up the steep incline. After rounding several bends where we looked in vain for the peak, the road eventually flattened out. Mark gave the standard 3-honk signal of celebration and turned to share a victorious 'air punch' moment with Greg (we may have been in America too long). Mark sped down the well-earned descent, looking back upon picturesque views of the route previously ridden. The road clung to the edge of cliffs which plunged violently into deserted bays, shallows streaked with intense turquoise and purple. Mark waited at the bottom of the descent for Greg, assuming that the views had got his photographic juices flowing. After 15 minutes wait, however, Mark reluctantly got back on the bike to head back up the hill, and his fears were confirmed when a passing motorist said she had seen a 'shirtless, long-haired guy fiddling with a wheel at the top of the hill'. Ticks all the boxes. Mark begrudgingly rode upwards, cursing the weakness of inner tubes. After the pesky tube was replaced we decided to camp in Big Sur rather than fight yet another losing battle with the dwindling sunlight. There were 2 small flaws to this plan; 1 - we were left with a demoralizing 105 miles to reach a shower and a bed in San Luis Obispo. 2 - the campsite was located at the bottom of the hill, right back where we had eaten lunch. A fairly inefficient afternoon all things considered. The next morning Mark treated Greg to breakfast in bed (oatmeal in a smelly tent) to compensate for waking him up in the dark. With the help of carefully chosen morning playlists we dragged ourselves over Big Sur yet again. Despite the seemingly ridiculous mileage and the hilly terrain we met Richard, our contact in San Luis Obispo, who had cycled out 15 miles to meet us. Greg made easy conversation to create the illusion that he was not totally exhausted, while Mark lagged behind, fighting a losing battle against his once again buckled wheel, which rubbed relentlessly against the brake and mudguard. We made our first 100 mile day, and felt like true cyclists!

At 60, Richard had an inspiring energy, enthusiastically talking us through his hobbies of cycling, rock-climbing, surfing and photography. Richard's passion for life was matched by our next generous hosts. Cat and Pat Patterson lived just off Patterson Drive (you can't make that up!) in Oxnard. Having recently completed a 4 year cycle around the world, the anecdotes flowed as freely as the wine. 2 wheeled travel is addictive and it is hard not to hear these fantastic stories and not dream wistfully of potential future trips. Africa anyone...?

The wealth of the area north of LA was displayed by the abundance of glamorous homes stretching into the hills. Of more interest to us were the numerous signs directing us to Malibu Pie Festival. We followed the arrows like mice eager for the cheese and stumbled across what was indeed a piefest, a smorgasbord of flavours. Fortunately we were too late for the pie-eating contest but were greeted by the locals, who upon hearing of our trip, insisted we taste a piece of each and every flavour. Our satisfied little bellies wobbled away as we left, Greg attempting to justify our indulgence - 'most of the pies had fruit in, they were probably pretty nutritious.'

At Venice Beach we parted company with a manly hug so that Mark could make it to San Diego for his first hot date in weeks. Unfortunately he misjudged the vast sprawl that is LA and was given a ride in a truck to Long Beach, where he spent the night on Jack's boat (a fellow cyclist and all round legend). He made it to San Diego in time, even managing to fit in a much needed beard trim. Meanwhile, Greg (painfully hung over after a night in LA with Will) eventually made it to Long Beach where he met Alison, a cycling enthusiast who offered a place to stay. Alison ended up accompanying him on the next 100 miles to San Diego, setting a savage pace that Greg's tired legs could barely maintain.

Southern California, although unmistakably still America, has offered us regular glimpses of what may await us in Mexico. Street signs in Spanish, the abundance of burrito stands and the people themselves make it impossible not to dream of what lies ahead. We have ridden over 1850 miles, the length of America. We are ready for the mystery, the challenge of exploring a new country, a foreign language, a distinct culture to experience. We hear stories which are terrible and wonderful in equal measure. We look forward to forming our own opinions first-hand, south of the border.

Total miles covered - 1,866

California Here We Come

Here's another chapter from our life on the road. The vast and varied events of the past week have conjured many thoughts and reactions, so in this blog we have reflected individually in contrast to our previous joint efforts. Enjoy...

MARK:

"What do you want most in the world, in this world of the possible?" (Off The Map)

With each switchback our confidence grew, leaning into sweeping corners as we sped down the valley side. The often cumbersome load of the bikes and panniers were united in graceful momentum. We owned the road. Few cars invaded our descent, and when we eventually rolled to a halt, we sat in the remaining beams of the afternoon sun wearing huge smiles. We carefully prepared an uninspiring banana sandwich, supplemented by our current addiction, blackberries, which we browsed for at our respective heights like a gazelle and a giraffe on the Serengeti. No words passed between us, but suddenly we realised just how amazing the last 2 hours on the bike had been. We had climbed steadily to an elevation of around 2000 feet after passing Leggett before the glorious, plunging downhill. We had been apprehensive about this sharp peak on our map for days, yet when it finally arrived we relished the challenge. It left us both with the unique sensation that any challenge can be overcome, that we are capable of achieving the goals we choose for ourselves, that anything is possible. A feeling that was encompassed concisely by the quote above. The feeling that you have control, that you have the power to decide how you spend your life, is intimidating yet liberating. Endless hours on the bike speculating over possible future plans gain intensity and spice at the thought that these things could actually happen. We strive not to take this feeling for granted.

Earlier this week we crossed from Oregon into California, a state which we had both eagerly anticipated. The Oregon coastline was excellent, but the mere name of California is enough to craft vivid images in the mind. To my knowledge, there are no songs praising Oregon girls. With high expectations we pedalled towards the state border. We were greeted by a grey and overcast sky which hung its shadow over a dreary 'Welcome to California' sign. As we are always seeking new experiences, this was obviously preferable to the cliched image of tanned young beauties rollerblading along coastal paths, surf crashing onto golden sands.

As the afternoon wore on, we decided a coffee break would provide a necessary boost, and found a burger bar which resembled a front room in the small town of Smith River. As the only customers, we were settling in to enjoy our refills when the woman who was clearly the waitress/manager/owner nonchalantly collected her coat and announced that she was done for the day. We rose to leave but she insisted we should stay, enjoy the coffee left in the pot, and simply lock up on our way out. We were stunned but happy, and fulfilled the trust placed in us by not even taking a sachet of sugar to enhance our oatmeal. We did, however, accept the offer of more coffee, and I handled the pot with grace and style, as the Gallery pics clearly demonstrate.

This week has seen many new experiences for us both. We traveled on a 7 mile trail through a forest of majestic redwoods. Unfortunately this trail was designed for hardy fell runners or perhaps extreme mountain bikers, and as such it took us 5 hours to drag our heavily laden steeds up the precarious slopes. Possibly as a result of these off-road shenanigans, Greg's tyre ripped, leading to an inevitable puncture. This, unfortunately, was not a new experience, but it did give us an excuse to hitchhike to the next bike shop, something we both fancied doing at least once. The novelty of trying to thumb a lift faded with the light, and the irony of a distinct lack of motor vehicles, while so many had seemed to roar past as we rode, did not add to our humour. We consumed our weight in broken biscuits before a white van pulled over. After spying the dearth of surfboards in the back, I surrendered the front seat to Greg and was treated to a wonderful torrent of surfing lingo in the conversation which ensued. Eventually Matt left us to grab an hour in the waves, promising to return for us if we weren't picked up. We thumbed in vain as Greg drooled at the small but perfectly formed swell, and drew favourable comparisons to the legendary waves of East Runton. The return of Matt's van was a welcome sight, and he generously offered us a place to stay for the night. We discovered the joy of a gourmet root beer and received an education in exotic cigars, and vowed to celebrate our arrival in Central America with a quality 'stogie'. In Arcata we acquired a fresh tyre but then used the rain outside as a convenient excuse to delay our departure. The delay extended from a coffee, to a bagel, to a whole day. While off the bikes in this welcoming town, which hummed with friendliness and creativity, we tried slacklining, moonlit yoga on the dunes beneath a midnight sky, and gatecrashed a Zoology lecture. As a result of the time spent improving our pitiful flexibility and our knowledge of evolutionary theory, we left ourselves with over 350 miles to cover in the next 3 and a half days. This had soon become 190 miles in a day and a half and the odds were stacked against us, as we found ourselves sat in a roadside ditch fixing yet another flat. It was decision time. As Greg said, it was only a matter of time 'before common sense would prevail' and we would be reduced to calling the hostel to delay our arrival, to admitting defeat. We made a vow, a pact to delay the nagging onset of reason, and to make it to San Francisco the next evening.

GREG:

A type of madness had engulfed us. We were completely aware of this temporary insanity and were both choosing to ride it like a Californian wave. Cackling sadistically, we set about our mission of self-harming using the blunt knife of a bike tool, pushing it with sheepish yet determined vigor into the palm of our hands.

That Sunday morning we had awoken at sunrise for the usual 'escape from the campsite before the Park Ranger can charge us' routine. Our objective was clear: to arrive in San Francisco by Tuesday evening in time for free beer night. This would entail 290 miles over the beautiful yet harsh slopes of Highway 1 in just three days. This was a feasible task, but as we are beginning to discover, things are rarely that simple and sure enough, as we rolled out of the state park, I felt the all too familiar slippery instability that can only mean a flat tyre. Oh joy.

Inner tube fixed and a cheeky little 65c coffee consumed, we pedalled away, singing a stirring ditty about our determination to complete our task. Alas, less than half a mile had passed before THORN, the god of punctures had struck again, this time immobilizing my front wheel. This is when the madness set in. Both Mark and I realized that there would come a point where these set-backs would ultimately render the challenge unrealistic, and that we would be forced to cancel the hostel, relinquishing the promise of free beer. However, upon this realization, a wretched feeling of pre-empted failure slapped us rudely in the face, forcing us to make a pact that whatever adversities were incurred, we would not let it hold us back, even if it meant riding through the night and pushing our bodies past exhaustion. We decide to signify our commitment by becoming blood brothers, using the afore mentioned tool (my Swiss Army knife would have been more effective but it was really sharp) to draw blood from our palms, before sealing the deal with a firm handshake. This brave and shivalrous premise was actually extremely difficult in practice, due to the fact that we are both complete pansies, and girly shrieks and cries ensued before I eventually managed to squeeze a miniscule droplet of crimson from my palm. It would have to do.

MARK:

As I write, I am enjoying the benefits of hostel life, gorging myself on a socially unacceptable number of free bagels. We made it to San Francisco. It was after 10pm, and all we did on our arrival was sit in the corner like smelly zombies of exhaustion, being revived by pizza and beer. We had made it, and dispelled the nagging worry that we might be all talk, that we were 'all fart and no poo'. We made it, and the beer tasted sweet.

Spending time in San Fran, and in the bagel-filled oasis that is the Green Tortoise hostel, has stirred up memories of my previous stay here and thoughts of how much has changed in time. 3 summers ago we rode across the Golden Gate bridge on a hired tandem, exhilarated in the bright light of a new adventure. Crossing the bridge again, lone cyclists of the night, we wanted nothing more than to reach the other side, the glistening lights that represented our temporary place to rest. San Francisco has been a pleasure, but there is barely time for one more bagel before we ride on again. The next target is San Diego, where the promise of a visit from a certain English girl will keep me going when my legs begin to tire.

GREG:

In his book Beyond Culture, the anthropologist Edward T. Hall explores the ways in which various cultures organize time. He believes that areas such as Northern Europe and America work on a Monochronic system, which emphasizes schedules, segmentation and promptness, where as Latin America and the Middle East use a Polychronic time system whereby several things happen at once, and emphasis is placed on the involvement of people and completion of transactions rather than adherence to preset schedules. I raise this thought because I feel that it holds great relevance to my life over the past four days. By setting a deadline to arrive in San Fran by 7pm on Tuesday and assigning a daily quota of mileage that was reliant on discipline to get up early in the mornings and ride late into the night, Mark and I have adhered to an extreme monochronic system that bordered on obsession.

Hall criticized the 'M-Time' system claiming that "...it is not inherent in man's own rhythms and creative drives, nor is it existential in nature." I would be inclined to agree. It is evident in the lack of imaginative or technically decent photos in this weeks gallery (a 90 mile a day schedule is not conducive to stopping by the road to compose an epic landscape or create some witty visual narrative), and I often reflect with disdain upon the stifling 9-5 culture of the world I grew up in. I am happy to be free of that monochronic society and have vowed to not let myself be caught up in it's web, Yet here I am, unnecessarily imposing the same 'factory whistle' scheduling upon myself. The paradox lies in the fact that it was this rigidity that allowed us to reach our target. It helped me push my body further than it had ever been pushed and without it, I would not be glowing with the incredible sense of achievement that I am feeling right now.

I am eager to return to the road and the life of simplicity it brings. I am excited to explore further, more of this wonderful part of the world, with it's redwoods that reach into the heavens and its perfectly regimented, glassy waves overseen by broad winged birds, lazily hitch-hiking on thermals. I look forward to once again riding through the corridors of eucalyptus trees, allowing their fresh fragrance to fill my head as the wind cools my sunburnt nose. I want to ride into the unfamiliar, where I am forced out of my comfort zone by vast differences in culture and language, and decide for myself whether Hall's generalizations of time systems in different parts of the world is accurate. Perhaps I could devise some sort of compromise between the two. I've never been all that good with time.

ROCKS! ELK! TSUNAMI!

Just a few of the potential fatal dangers blighting our progress south, according to the trusty American highway sign.

Forgive us if this impending blog sounds like an attack on the stars and stripes, as so far this country has welcomed us with warm hospitality, incredible vistas and bucket-loads of food. The vast beauty of the landscape, namely the spectacular Oregon coastline along which we have ridden this week, consistently takes the breath from our lungs. To look down a sheer rocky cliff face to where sea lions bask and hurl themselves into the frothy swell makes the longest climbs worthwhile. Just this morning we ate breakfast while sat on some driftwood in the middle of a 2 mile stretch of deserted beach. It doesn't exactly make one pine for Southend-on-Sea.

Despite all this, 700 miles on the road has led to a few teensy irritations, which we shall now divulge/offload:

As previously mentioned, the American propensity for signs means that it is impossible to travel more than 100 yards without being informed of potential perils, ranging from a slight dip in the road or a rogue piece of gravel all the way up to an apocalyptic tidal wave. We wonder just how effective these informative signs would be in the event of an actual tsunami, and whether members of the public will be adhering to the 'designated evacuation routes' (no joke) or simply running for the hills. We suspect the latter. There are also many signs warning motorists of bikes in the road, although this hasn't prevented a couple of excessively large motorhomes and a school bus getting close enough top give us a friendly nudge.

We also take issue with the mile-long corridor of consumerism which is characteristic of the road leading into every American town. Vast superstores and fast food 'drive-thrus' are all based out of town, representing a culture totally reliant on the automobile.

This week our distinct lack of cycling experience came to light as we were halted for almost 2 days by a serious technical issue - a flat tyre. 4 flat tyres to be precise, but our blatant ineptitude magnified this problem ten-fold. It seemed all hope was lost when Greg broke his third and final inner tube with some over zealous pumping and heavy handed rim work. Mark rode 10 miles on a heroic rescue mission and triumphantly returned with an inner tube...that was the wrong size. We see the pity and obvious doubt in people's eyes when we reveal to real cyclists that we plan to travel all the way to Cost Rica.

However, being a pair of buffoons has positive points. After seeing Mark fall off his bike in the middle of the street in Manzanita, 2 guys, Brian and Danny, took pity and offered us a futon for the night. While on the beach regrouping and wiping bloody knees, a lady kindly offered us leftovers at her beachside holiday home. To our delight, 'leftovers' was an understatement, and was in fact a euphemism for steaming bowls of penne bolognaise, warm sourdough bread, cool Californian wine and a tub of Ben and Jerry's. We felt obliged to polish off these 'leftovers' lest they go to waste. We were sent on our way with a bag of Eileen's homemade cookies, choc chip banana bread and roast chicken. We dragged our swollen bellies up the hill to our hosts for the night with Greg projectile vomiting from the saddle. Brian and Danny's home was a wonderful log cabin set back in the woods, a base for 11 people learnin wilderness skills ranging from food gathering to boat building using animal skins. The cabin was indeed a hive of creativity, and it was a pleasure to spend the evening with like-minded individuals. Their self-sufficient choice of living, epitomised by rows of homemade preserves (dark chocolate and ginger syrup?!), inspired us, and jerked us into the realisation that one doesn't have to wander unconsciously into the lifestyle that our society presents to us. We also had a bloody great kip on our futons!

We have found that the routine of a touring cyclist relies little on calendars. On what we assumed to be Thursday 11th September, we stopped for a midday muffin to fuel our pursuit of a record breaking disatance for the day. A quick phone check revealed that it was in fact Friday 12th September, and that Mark had obliviously reached the ripe old age of 24. This was celebrated by smashing out 84 miles, Mark sitting on the floor of a public restroom in order to charge his phone and check birthday messages, and a personalised and delicious surprise cake (check out Mark's gleeful grin on the gallery).

As we reflect on the trip thus far, numbers and distances seem to roll lazily off the tongue. Today we anticipated a casual 30 mile spin into the town of Florence, where we now sit down to write this blog. Yet when a large proportion of these miles are winding, uphill cliffs to be slogged up at 6mph, it's a humbling reminder that no mile comes for free.

Week 2 - 352 miles

Total distance - 703 miles

Lessons learned:
- Inner tube valves are by no means indestructable.
- Super glue is not suitable for cementing punctures.
- Apple crumb is the best type of muffin in the world. Ever.
- Freshly picked roadside blackberries complement bagels and cream cheese.
- Greg is re-evaluating life choices afer visiting the 'wilderness cabin'.
- Lifting logs on the beach rather than weights in the gym makes you feel like a real man. Grrr.

Zoom and Gloom

6.38 am - Before us lay a smooth blanket of white mist, illuminated by the morning sun. We rode side by side as not another soul shared the road, bursting in and out of crisp cool shade and warming light. That morning bags were packed in record time, and we covered 13 miles before finding the perfect lakeside bench for oatmeal, where we sat and watched the morning joggers. This self-satisfied bubble was burst when a kind lady in a white saloon, obviously passionate about helping the destitute, pulled over to offer us a hot shower. After checking our appearances in a darkened window we could understand her mistake.

Just 1 week earlier the dream of cycling from Vancouver, Canada to San Jose, Costa Rica, (and the opportunity to cultivate our trampish facial hair and manes) looked to be in jeopardy. We were due to leave at 6am on Friday 29th August, when it was revealed on Thursday's 10 o clock news that Zoom airlines shall no longer be zooming anywhere, announcing their liquidation with immediate effect. Frantic googling ensued (thanks to all flight researchers!) which eventually found a flight on Mon 1st September. Greg was relieved - he hadn't packed yet. The ride was still on...

After arriving in Vancouver, we decided a hearty burger would be an apt 'last supper' before 4 months of stringent budgeting. Greg's housemate Oli kindly recommended the meatfest challenge that is the 2lb burger at the Two Parrots restaurant. Check out the gallery for photos of this monstrosity. The result? Burger 1, Greg 0.

The first week on the road has brought us so many experiences already. We had the privelige of watching the sunset from a deserted clifftop campsite. We rode the awesomebridge at Deception Pass (video camera precariously balanced atop handlebars). We were treated to free corn and bagels by the generous ladies at Port Ludlow market. The overwhelming generosity of strangers has been a theme throughout this week, exemplified perfectly by our experience on Saturday, when a family of 4 pulled over and invited us to stay in their home up the road. We welcomed the chance to lay our sleeping bags in their garden, but these expectations were wildly surpassed as we were treated to a warm (and necessary) shower, a comfy bed, and even blueberry pancakes in the morning. We rode away with full stomachs and huge smiles.

The previous night, in Fort Kitsap State Park, we had shared an intriguing and enlightening evening with Chuck, our larger than life campground neighbour, a fan of classic rock radio, strong beer and beautiful women. Topics of conversation; religion, politics, and how to make the perfect s'more (that's a toasted marshmallow and chocolate biscuit sandwich for you Brits!)

As for the riding, we've come through the initial days of extreme achage and are becoming stronger and more in tune with our trusty Muddy Foxes. At times we've found ourselves slipping into a state of fluid efficiency where we are at one with the bike, and the miles of road slip by as if the world was rolling beneath us, pushing us towards our destination.

The kindness we've experienced so far is underlined by the fact that we are writing notes for this blog sat in the garden of another American family, strangers before we knocked on their door, who allowed us to camp here rather than riding the remaining miles to a campground in darkness. We were even brought a bowl of ice cream each, which after a hard day under a hot sun nearly brought me to tears of joy!Bring on week 2...

Week 1 - 351 miles

Lessons learned:

- Gas stations suck, farmers markets rock.
- Pesky racoons are greedy and relentless.
- It's possible to get fat even when riding 70 miles a day if you consume your own body weight in chocolate and peanut butter.
- State Park rangers don't start work until 7am - leave by 6.30.
- Green tea before bedtime leads to awkward midnight wee breaks.
- National Insurance cards spread peanut butter effectively.
- Wear sunscreen...