Re-entry.

     One the most important links with any of my bicycle trips is having a staging area both coming and going. Meielle Nichols took me in, outside of Brussels, and treated me as only one would treat a god. It was wonderful. Not only could I assemble and disassemble my bike with plenty of room and security, we dined in style both upon my arrival and departure. As though I were long lost family, she cooked up a veritable feast for me on a daily basis with white wine starting at noon. Her two children, Avril and Alec, put me in the uncle role which I thoroughly enjoyed.  Monopoly(in French), Trivial Pursuit and a video tennis game.  Mielle gave me door to door treatment to the airport.  Needless to say, I hope I can return the favor. Now it is off to Boston and home.  And for my next act.....!

The train ride back to Lille

     4:00 is an ugly hour to rise, considering that the sun won't rise for another four hours. Seven steps to get where I am going. One, ride from the hostel to the Brest train station.  Number two through six, make five train changes.  Seven,  ride from the Lille station to my Hostel.  I pulled it off but it was a fire drill every step of the way.  Remember, my bike fully loaded is about eighty-five pounds and a beast to maneuver up stairs, down escalator and into tight elevators.   Anything to avoid the stairs which meant lifting my bike to a vertical positions in order to shoe horn myself into tight elevators. The escalator was almost as much fun.  Nothing beats going down stairs with both the disc breaks on full, releasing them momentarily to descend to the next step.  The train track isn't announced until fifteen minutes before the train departs; then the contortion act begins. Scoping out the easiest route beforehand helps but the execution is the catch.  Complicating things, the ticket must be stamped by the little yellow machine and the bicycle car must be found.  If it were not for my extroverted nature and my minimal french speaking ability, I would have been up a creek.
    Through the countryside the train, bike and I travelled, stopping at little podunks along the way. Adding to the situation, with all the terrorism going on, the big stations were patrolled by army personnel shouldering machine guns. Not just one or two but six or seven personnel.  With their hand on the trigger, they were scanning the public constantly,  a good/bad feeling.
     Finally, through the busy streets of Lille, after fourteen hours of train travel, I finessed my way to the hostel. The GPS was always a few steps behind and screwing me up along the way.  Don't trust the damn machine!  Alors, I arrived at a large modern building which housed the hostel.  Checked in, my room mate was an American dude, sixty, who was real glad to talk to another American.  He was traveling back to the States from the Philippines where he lives; not by plane but by train, car and bus.  We had a lot in common. Another adventurer like me; we had a grand time comparing notes and bonding. So.....a long day with a lot of variables which thankfully all fell into place.

Taking in some culture

  Whirled around town all day, seeing this and that including what was left of the pre-war city and the local art museum.  Bicycling around town sure beats walking.  At the hostel, I had a discussion with one the managers.  We both agreed that there are two parts to seeing a country. One, seeing the sites and experiencing its culture.  Two, meeting the people and learning their perspective on life.  The overwhelming number of tourists only see the sites and basically isolate themselves from the population.  Being on a bicycle solo has allowed me to have the whole experience.  For example last night back at the hostel, I shared a bottle of wine with a fellow bicyclist who was bicycling like myself. His English was a heck of a lot better than my French but I still made an effort to speak his language.  Hearing his take on France and the Estate Unis was interesting. No one is thrilled about Trump.
      Tomorrows first train leaves at 5:40am so packed up everything ready so I will have plenty of time to ride to La gare. I pray that I make all my connection on my way to Lille, France on the border with Belgium.

Site seeing in Brest

  Having reached Brest, given the inclement weather, I decide that I should wrap up the riding south and explore Brest instead.  The weather was a major factor in this decision.  Lat year the weather was glorious here, no such luck this year. Riding around town sure beats walking; however, being Monday, most of the museums were closed.  I did try out the cable car which was fun but heights are not one specialties.  The naval base takes up a large portion of the water front along with the shipping
piers for the Cargo ships.  There are numerous huge cranes along the waterfront and accompany warehouses.  In between all this, there are various restaurants and water related businesses.  The  city's large acquarium(Oceanopolis) is right down the road from my hostel.  The port area isn't the best place to walk at night given the lack of traffic and people.  I made the six kilometer walk going both ways from a restaurant, keeping a close eye on my surroundings along the way. It reminded me of "On The Waterfront" with Marlin Brando.
     For a good portion of the day, I just chilled out and read a book on my tablet. Anyways, I rode about one thousand miles and Brest is a good stopping point.  This trip, more so than my other adventures, I took more time for side trips.  In Ireland, I experimented with seeing a few island and should have done more. Doing the north to south leg of the French coast along with its numerous islands is definitely on my to do list.  Tomorrow includes more exploring of Brest and getting ready for my long train ride back to Lille, France; an adventure in itself.  Adventure is the operative word, getting out of one's comfort zone and "going for it".  Time is short.

Ile de Ouessant, a place for the gods

   Through a heavy mist, I traversed the Island taking in the numerous lighthouses and beautiful landscape and houses.  This island was made for the Gods.  How cool would it be to find a small needy stone cottage that I could restore and live in.  I am sure within three months my French would be proficient enough to manage quite well here.  Most of the visitors here are hikers and bird watchers, vacation second homes as well.  My room mate, in his late twenties, is here with his friends for two weeks observing the various migratory birds.  I have always characterized bird watchers as a little in the geeky side, not these guys. They are hardy red blood Frenchmen.   They thrive on the inclement weather because it keeps the birds on the ground where they can observe them. The Ile de Ouessant is one the top places in France to bird watch.  Everyone has computer bird apps where birds share sightings with one another. We talked birds a bit; I have about ten species which are regulars around my house, both migratory and all-year-rounders.
    I took the 18:00 ferry back to Brest after saying goodbye to my new friends.  Being Sunday evening, the boat was packed.  Two stops before Brest, one of which is a small island which I should have spent a day on.  My ride back to my auberge jeunesse was a straight shot along the waterfront. The weather tomorrow will be more of the same so I will just bike around town seeing more sites.
   

Cloudy but a wonderful day in Ouessant

Alors, having worked out the route, I arrived with plenty of time before the ferry departed for ouessant.  Yesterday, a nice guy (to remain nameless) going my way said he would guide me to the hostel when I arrives....an understatement.  He sought me out; as we left the harbor he point out the German submarine pens and fortification. I take some excellent closeups. The ferry made two stops and after pointing out the famous light houses we arrived at Ouissant.  You may have seen the famous picture of a lighthouse keeper standing just outside of the lighthouse door just as a huge wave was enveloping the lighthouse from the other side.  He got in trouble for his carelessness.  I hope to get a shot of this lighthouse.  More on my new friend, he is an officer in the navy with an interesting career.
.   Upon arrival, he and his friend asked me to join them at his house for an afternoon lunch which turned out to be a full blow affair with friends and relatives. They put me in the middle and wanted to speak English as I wanted to speak French.  We had a fun time as well as a delicious French dejeuner.   Patrick has my card and said he would get in touch with me and forward the email addresses of the others.  After this memorable time, I rode to the nearby lighthouse (huge black white and black striped structure.  I rode back to my auberge jeunesse and napped.  For dinner, I had the best fish salad ever.  Tomorrow I will bicycle this small island seeking out the several lighthouses and take in the beautiful countryside and houses. I could easily spend two weeks here every year.  Turns out everyone in the packed hostel was there to bird watch; the island is  on a major bird route.

Brest, a day on the town

    A beautiful day for me to visit the sites.  First, I determined the road route to the the ferry to Ouissant for tomorrow. Next, to the train station to figure my transportation back to Brussels: the local train, five changes to Lille with the last leg to be determined, no fully assembled bikes allowed on the Belgium trains. Perhaps a bus to Tilly where Mielle Nichols' house is located.  Next, I rode up to the American monument (park) tower honoring the Americans for their part in WWI, as well, a plague commentating the French admirals who led the French fleet against the British during our revolution. Apparently, the ground on which the monument rests is American soil.  A great view from the park gave me a very distant view of the German submarine pens within the French naval base. Stationary binoculars gave me a better view. Finally, I biked over to the Brest castle which dates back to the romans (third century) who built the initial fortification.  The Brest Fort defends the 1.2 kilometer opening to the Brest harbor.  Over the centuries the Fort has been modified but the Roman foundation is still in tact, amazing.  Currently, the Fort is a marine history museum.  The tour took two hours with the aid of  an audio hand-held in English. There were nineteenth century painting of the French eighteenth century sailing battle ships defeating the English ships. The French perspective was interesting; they have a great deal of pride in their history.  By the way, my French is improving daily. Constantly,I am asking for the English words in French. Je parle francais un petit peux.  Once people realize how bad my French is, they start speaking with what little English they know.  Tomorrow I am off to Ouessant (pronounced 'whistle') bright and early. The ferry will pass close by the sub pens and fortifications.

The weatherman lied

Left St-Pol-de Leon for Brest at 9:15. Only a 10% chance of rain but what is classified as rain? For thirty-miles moderately hilly roads, I ploughed through a very heavy mist which was essentially rain. Cold and wet, I wove my way through Brest and found an auberge jeunesse (hostel) where I hung out inside until check in time at five.  The receptionist, Joanna, gave me a room all to myself, so here I am for two nights. Where to after tomorrow, another island? Sure enough Ouessant is a nice little island an hour off shore which everyone highly recommends. It is the furthest most point in Brittany. The people on the island are referred to as having character; perhaps, something akin to Maine.  What French name is equivalent to Virgil or Enoc?  There is a hostel there as well where Joanna reserved the last bed in the house for me. Tomorrow I scope Brest out, the next day I am off to Ouessant.

A bit hilly but at least a decent day

   Natalie and Erwan were off before I came down for breakfast; everything was laid out for me.  I made sure everything was shipshape, locked up and lumbered down the road in my touring machine.  Miraculously, with their directions and Google's, I found my way westward.  Thirty-eight miles with numerous hills to grind up with a mix of back roads and busy secondary roads,  I cruised into St-Pol-de-Loen. The town had the typical churches in the town center by the town square lined with old stone buildings.  Brittany and Normandy are comprised primarily of these stone buildings, very few wooden dwellings.  Being October the campsites are closing up for the season thus taking away one of my preferred places to crash for the night. The tourist office found me a nice B&B.  Monique gave me the best room since I was her only guest. The bathroom was all mine, YES!  The restaurant she recommended downtown was a gourmet delight.  From the vin rouge, a three course dinner to cafe, everything was delicious.  It is the best French food I have experienced since being in the country.  Even the house wine, I was asked to sample followed by a description of its characteristics. Brittany has its own wines, beers, cheeses and foods specialties .  Mussels and artichokes are big on their list. Today I saw artichokes growing for the first, like budding flowers several feet off the ground, really interesting.
     Tomorrow, I make run the for Brest.  Rain is NOT predicted.

A very enjoyable day

      As expected it rained its eyes out last night.  By daybreak, most everything had drier out. My one man tent is amazing the way I can pack everything in out of the elements and still have plenty of room to sleep. Dried out only the ground cloth and bottom of the tent, packed up and headed for town. My new friend Geelre (tough to pronounce) and his wife, Flo, took me to lunch.  From aperitif to French expressions coffee, our lunch was delicious and full of laughs.  To my surprise they picked up the tab.  Took the ferry over to the mainland and headed west at 14:15.  Thirty miles through scenic countryside and villages brought me to Ploubezre.  I met my Warmshowers host in town, Natalie packed my bags in her car and I followed her through the country to her here house. Just as I arrived her husband, Erwan,  arrived, very nice people. They had recently acquired a beautiful stone house, stone garage  and another stone building across the driveway. With plenty of land and forest (orchard included) along with the ancient stone buildings, they had landed in paradise. The place is in need of a near full restoration but they are in their mid thirties.  I would have loved to have hung a shingle and worked on the place.
     Until you have bicycled all day, you can't appreciate how nice a Warmshower is. An out standing dinner with great French wine and plenty in common, we carried on for several hours.  The are both leaving early for work tomorrow and leaving me to lock up.  Trust is never a concern with this Warmshowers organization.  Off to the land of Nod.

Ile de Brehat, a beautiful island

     The sun is rising around 8:10 and my 7:30 wake up time is creeping into the night.  The elderly owner of Hotel Sant Roch had breakfast waiting, at least what the French call breakfast. After eating everything I could to full the engine, I pedaled off from Langpol (sp), a few kilometers up the road from where I thought I had stopped yesterday.  I can't even find these place on goggle when zoomed in.  Of course, it was raining, a misty fine one, but rain nevertheless.  Eighteen miles northwest I arrived at the ferry for Ile de Brehat.  Alas, the sun appeared.  No cars just people and my bike which cost an extra 16€.  Riding over I stood on the foredeck and spread my arms like a cormorant to dry out.  The sweat created by my rain jacket is almost worse than the rain.  The jacket keeps my body temperature from falling to hypothermic levels.  One French man, riding over with his wife to close his shop for the season, chatted it up with me.  He called the local hotel which was too expensive so he recommended camping.  A big festival had just finished up yesterday, so the tourist had thinned out  to a comfortable level. With the campsite officially closed, the resident keeper said there was hot water and not to worry about pitching a tent. Talk about a view, I perched myself overlooking the bay with large rock outcroppings dotting water over to the mainland. After setting up, showering, I stripped down the bike and cycled to town.  The roads are not any wider than eight feet, the houses are stone and in pristine conditions.  I came along the french couple on the boat.  Their shop, "The Petit Masion", was tucked into a wall lining the road.  His directions and suggestions helped me navigate the island as well find a decent restaurant for a late lunch.  The ride out to the lighthouse was this idyllic paved path winding over small hills lined with houses into lower land where cows grazed.   With my bike, I Travered the island in no time. One interesting site was a small tractor pulling a cart with a draped coffin, with attendees walking behind.  Off came my hat as they passed me by, just feet away.  This place is intimate, no secrets are kept here.   The usual tourists were about but not oppressively so.  The summer here must be shear madness.  Coming into town, I found the market, stocked up and headed back to camp where I took in the view, had diner avec vin rouge, read and called it an early evening.  And of course, the rain came down throughout the night. Tomorrow the ferry leaves at 14:00 and twenty-seven miles west I have a Warmshowers place to stay for the night.

Brittany is beautiful but the rain keeps coming

     Left my hotel in Pleneuf-Val-Andre at 9:02 and sped down hill for about a kilometer to take in the beach and harbor before I headed northwest out of town.  Beautiful village on one side of a large rocky hill and an equally beautiful beach on the other which unfortunately was built up completely along with a small casino. I keep seeing them along my route with Loto advertisements as well. Even France has lowered its cultural standards. The beach area is a huge tourist attractions but fortunately for me the place was pretty much folded up for the season.  With rain forecast for noon, I climbed out of town and tried not to take any wrong turns.  The water stayed on my right within eye sight as I navigated the back roads. One seaside town after another, cafes sprinkled around the harbors and boats sitting in the mud.  Despite the high latitude, the weather remains mild and everyone keeps their boat in the water into November.  Noon arrived and dampness slowly turned into a light rain. I pulled out the rain gear and hunkered down for a wet ride.  The rain stayed light, off and one again all afternoon. Fives hours of riding northwest towards Paimpol and my body needed fuel. Being Sunday afternoon, pretty much everything was closed, yet I pulled into an open bar for beer and to eat what I had on board: pate, fromage, a nectarine, chocolate and miel.  The bartender followed by two locals gave me directions to a seaside hotel.  My GPS took me down the road and had me descending at least thirty stairs shrouded in vegetation.  Walking of course with both my disc brakes on full kept my steep decent under control.  Remember my bike is no light weight at eighty lbs.. Below was a quaint village with a hotel which was "complet", full, no vacancies.  This was not a good thing considering my wet sweaty condition with over forty miles ridden.  Fortunately, I was given directions to a small village two K up a long incline where a small hotel was located next to the local church. Welcome to Plouezec.  It looked closed, I knocked at two doors and was getting ready to leave when an elderly man came out.  Saved by the bell!  He showed me a nice room up an outside stairway by a beautiful  lush garden area.  This place is ancient as is the whole village and everything is built of stone. Charming!  After cleaning up, washing my riding clothes in the sink and taking an hour nap, the owner drove me back to the seaside village of
Brehec where I had a delicious diner avec vin rouge.  When I was done, the restaurant owner called c the Saint Roch hotel where upon the owner retrieved me.  Everyone knows everyone.
     Tomorrow, I will make a short ride to Pointe de l'Arcouest where I will take a one mile ferry ride over to Ile de Brehat which is supposed to be very nice .  A lot of Parisians have houses there and if I am lucky, they won't be there! They are the ones who give the French a bad name, sort of like New Yorkers invading New England.  The sun is expected to shine for a few days and I hope  to pitch a tent for two nights.

Winding my way west

        Caught the ferry out of Helier to St Malo and somehow found my way out of the city.  I really do need a compass.  For a guy who rides a bike all over the world, I have a terrible sense of direction.  The sun helps but when it is cloudy, I rely on poor signage and a GPS app that does more harm than good.  Nevertheless, the ride was through miles of back country with roads no wider than twelve feet. A few secondary roads but the drivers gave me plenty of room. Once again I arrived at my destination, Pleneul-Val-Andre, just as the rain started.  No hostels or Warmshowers.com and camping in the rain was a no go.  So I found a modestly priced hotel and checked in.  Tomorrow, once again, rain is predicted so it may be a marginal ride. I will play it as it goes.
         I am realizing that doing the whole coast of France will require more time than I have.  So my strategy is changing to take in more sites and do less riding. The islands intrigue me and I can always come back another time.

As an untypical tourist

   Up early, had breakfast and suited up for a rainy ride (I am growing gills) to the sites.  Smelling the roses is overrated when riding a bicycle in the rain.  Via the bike paths I found my way to the German tunnels. Though never finish by the Eastern Europe slave labor, it was an amazing feat of engineering,  one hundred feet below the surface.  Hospital, living quarters, armaments, extensive ventilation system to filter out gas yet bringing in breathable air and everything necessary to live in siege conditions. In fact, the Germans held out until August 9, while the population was slowly starving. I bicycle back into town a bit chilled but sucked it up and visited Elizabeth Castle. This castle was a replacement for the castle at Gorry.  Charles I took sanctuary here during the civil war. Eventually, Parliament executive him and replaced him with Cromwell.  Neat place and the hybrid "duck" which ferried us both ways was the highlight of the attraction..  It wheels drove us into the water whereupon the propeller kicked in.  An occasional bump on the bottom kept the ride interesting.  Around five I arrived back at the Mornington Hotel.  The warm shower defrosted me followed by a nap, a beer and dinner at an Italian restaurant.  Now I am on the ferry back to St Malo when I will bicycle west to Brest, two days at least. Please pray to the rain gods to hold off for awhile.

Hanging out on the Isle of Jersey

    Woke at 5:15, almost three hours before sunrise.  The cafeteria was up and running at six and with the help of my translation app I was able to retrieve my bike for the lock shed.   Never, never, never trusting my google GPS,  I mapped out the route the night before, a straight shot down the road to the ferry terminal.  It was exciting boarding the big catamaran and riding over to a Jersey.  One passport check after another and I was aboard.  Boarding with me, I talked with a coupule and saw another who were riding power assisted bikes. They are the rage for the older folk.  The man's wife was even reticent about riding an electric bike.  I guess it is that or ride alone, I prefer being alone, less complaining.  Once the ferry navigated out of St Malo harbor, it took off for Jersey.  It appeared the ship wasn't moving that fast until I ventured out side onto the deck.  It had to be doing twenty-five  knots or so.  Disembarked, had my passport checked twice again and hit the road for my hotel, The Mornington.  Left side driving and the place was hopping;100,000 population.  Right off I was delighted  to happened upon a bike shop (English spoken) where I was able to get a new tire and put away my spare. They are looking for the right derailleur also. I found the Mornington, settled in and  headed on foot to see the town.  Delicious fish and chips with a beer, cookies and brownies down the road and a good look-see sound.  Where to? With a day bus pass, I boarded the #1 and took the shore road to Gorey Harbor where  I explored
Mont Orgueil castle,.  Originally earthen works well over a thousand years ago and finally
L under King John took shape as a castle.  Countless modification haw been made over the centuries making the castle into a interesting conglomeration of walls, towers
and countless rooms of all shapes and uses. Once on top, I couldy easily see France eighteen miles away.  The seaside village down below was laid back with all the boats grounded at low tide. Took the bus back to town, had a nap and consumed a delicious  diner at a Sri Lankan restaurant. Tomorrow, weather permitting, I will check out the German tunnels and the Elizabeth castle.

A very pleasant day

     Peter and I headed out of Avranches for Mont Saint Michel, twelve miles on flat coastal roads with distant views of Mt St Michel.  Since my last visit in 1970, a bridge has been built across the flood plain between the mainland and the Mont.  shuttles taking you to and from the parking lots on the mainland.  Before it was a matter of dodging the ebb and flow of the tide. We walked about a mile over a very civilized sidewalk designed for the masses.  Nice place but totally overrun by hoards of tourists and countless shops selling the same old tacky tourist stuff. Only thirty people actually live on the Mont; god bless them.  With that "been there, done that", we bicycled westward.  Peter and I came to the fork in the road where we bid farewell. He headed south and me west to St Malo.  The week we rode together went by in a blink. His pace was a bit faster and longer than I really wanted to go.  Basically, he was hauling about forty pounds less than me, my body weight in particular.  Nevertheless, we hung together, Peter backing off a little and me pushing harder.  I like rides between forty and forty-five miles, he liked them around sixty. Riding over here in France is much different than crossing the USA.  More hills, narrow roads and very little in the way of long flat straight terrain. Thus, ride is tougher and racking up fifty miles a day can be tough.  Hugging the ocean and passing through one town after another was charming.  The French have a more laid back style of living; the market everyday, more local cyclists and tasteful old villages.
     With Forty-two miles behind me, I coasted into St Malo where I navigated over to an auberge Jeunesses.  Less than an hour later the skies opened up.  Good decision not to camp out.  After leaving Peter, my pace slowed down and my thinking shifted to how I could change the scenery a bit.  Why not, let's head for Jersey?  So off I go.  Two nights are booked at a hotel in  St Helier, right near where the ferry docks.  An adventure within an adventure; I have always wanted to visit the Island.

One brutal climb after another

   9:25, Peter and I left our B&B in Tessy-sur-view and hooked onto the Euro bike trail #4, following the canal like yesterday, easy and picturesque.  Then came the hills, it was if we were repenting for idyllic rides we had over past several days. One murderous climb after another, all day; more climbing in one day than the whole trip combined.  Some climbs last for up to thirty five minutes.  I even had to dismount and push my bike where the incline of the hill was too steep.  Some riders will stay on their bikes at all cost but I try to take the least strenuous approach so I can conserve my energy  These are the times when I wish I had shed the ten pounds I put on during the spring and summer.  Items I brought with me which have yet to be used, I felt like discarding them by the roadside.  Did I need to carrying three apples and an orange? I should switch out my twenty-two granny gear and go to something even smaller.  Compounding the strenuous climbs were the poorly marked bike patches. At one point we made a loop of about three miles over hills and ended up in the same ten we had gone through earlier. Had someone told me I would be riding fifty-four miles today, I would have asked  the person what hallucinagen they were using. My legs and lungs held up fine but I must have sweat out at least a liter.  My arms (pulling on the bars) are soar.  Bike drunk, we rolled into Avranche.  Peter found the Patton Hotel (next to General Patton's monument, tank and bust) as I inquired at a bike shop about getting another tire, to no avail.  So we checked in, cleaned up, had a good dinner out on the town and settled in for a much needed night's sleep.
     Tomorrow we will make it to Mont Saint Michel.  I have seen the place twice and the tourism has ruined it. After this stop, Peter will be heading  south and I west to Brest.  One week with Peter
Shultz has been lots fun.  Perhaps, I will run into another rider going my way.
 

Dodged the rain once again

   Stayed in bed for an extra eleven minutes knowing that it was once again raining. With Peter on board, we have split the hotel bills making our lodging affordable in such places which allow for such luxury. We left Carentan at 10:25 with the skies threatening.  Fifty-one miles later we arrived in Tessey-sur-vire just as the skies opened up. This is the fourth time this has happened. You tell me what is going on!
    The ride along the euro trail 4 was like no other. Pastoral country following an old canal. Our path was no wider than six feet.  I could have photographed something every mile but I thought how I simply wanted to enjoy the ride.  Cows, pastures, beautiful old French house, an ancient canal all making for a ride hard to describe unless you were here. By the way, you can't get  to these back country bicycle trails by car.
      Along the way, my rear tire started to break away from the rim.  Rather than risk blursting the heavy duty inner tube, I stopped and replaced the tire. It is an ordeal, the bags must be taken off, the repair equipment hauled out from the bottom  of a large pannier, the bike turned upside down, the wheel removed and the new tire carefully replaced. Then for the reassembly.  Only through experience was I able to complete the job in thirty minutes.  Being on the road for six hours a day, there are always mechanical issues cropping up. Always my ears are tuned to my bikes operation.  Whether it be a squeaking chain starved for oil due to the rain or a replacement derailleur which is the wrong size or a click with every rotation of the pedals, there is something going on all the time.  I have on going conversations with my bike, the weather, the condition of the roads or a passing cars. Long distances bicycling is not for the weak at heart.  With adventure comes problems which need to be overcome, constantly.
   Alas, Peter and I found  a B&B just as the skies are opened up. Hot bath, a short walk to the market for wine and provisions brought our day to a mellow end. Another two days and we will be in Le Mont Saint Michel, the tourist trap that it is.

Omaha beach

     8:25 we departed from Courseulles-sur-mer (Juno Beach) and  headed west along the coast. Peter and I arrived at Omaha beach and the national cemetery around noon. Forty-seven years ago I slept on the beach after hiking 8 miles in total darkness.  I woke up to a water drenched sleeping bag, packed up and the with my heavy pack climbed through? the brush up to the top where I saw endless rows of graves.  My eyes welled up. This time I bicycled in to see the same cemetery.  Again the same emotion.  Everyone should be given a history lesson about this Normandy invasion on June 6, 1944, the battle which began the liberation of Europe from Nazi Germany.  7,000 ships landed 135,000 troops; by the time it was over in three weeks, 35,000 allied troops had died, 55,000 Germans.   The cemetery was serene, beautifully manicured with birds chirping everywhere.  Many tourists but no sounds but nature.
   I hiked down to the beach where I filled a small container of sand for a friend back home. Once on the road again, we covered another twenty miles before finding a modest hotel to shelter us from a rain which began just as we rolled into Carentan, France. Nice town square but completely closed up due to it being Sunday and the rain.  Forty-four miles covered,  more distance covered according to Peter's odometer. Great ride, light traffic, a few small memorials and a light roadside lunch  After we arrived, we cleaned up, stayed in and eat our rations along with a good bottle and a half of vin rouge.  Tomorrow rain is a 50% chance, but the ride goes on.

A day off to explore Bayeux

   Up and running early so Peter and I could catch the bus to Bayeux.  It lies about thirty kilometers inland and we did not want to bike away from the coast.  We spent the day exploring Bayeux, particularly seeing the famous ancient tapestry depicting the Norman conquest.  It is about one meter wide and seventy meters long; made as a pictorial history for the masses who were illiterate.  It dates back to just after the Norman conquest in 1066.  It is not quite clear who exactly made it.  Some say the ladies in waiting in English court others say the church/monastery in Bayeux, theories abound. The viewing of the tapestry was facilitated by a hand held recording device which gave a very detailed account of what each of the scenes represented. A must see if you are over this way.
     After lunch and a beer, we hoofed out to the edge of town where the Normandy invasion museum
is located.  Tanks are displayed outside and inside is a very extensive layout of every facet of the invasion. With so much to take in, our minds were pretty much on overload mode after two hours. We went back to town, had another brew and took the bus back to our camp site.  After food shopping for tomorrow and pizza at a nearby restaurant, we packed it up for the day. Tomorrow our goal is to bike to Omaha beach, sixty miles. The weather will be perfect and the land reasonably flat.

Two guys having a good time

     Off at 8:55, beat yesterday's departure by fifty-two minutes.  We somehow navigated our way out of La Havre.  We couldn't find the bypass to this enormous bridge with bearly three feet of shoulder.  The trucks and cars gave us room but it was nerve racking.  This bridge was huge, spanning the inlet leading into La Havre, a suspension bridge with little room to spare for two crazy bicyclists.  I kept my eyes on the road immediately in front of me and concentrated on keeping the bars straight and cranking away in my lowest gear. I was glad as hell when we made it to the other side. Immediately following was another bridge, two center piers with cables splaying to each sides of the bridge, you know, the Spanish designer.  This bridge had a small protected lane but was still no picnic to climb over.  Two scary bridges back to back was about as much excitement as needed for the day.  After riding for another hour we stopped at Deauville and feasted on coffee and succulent fruit pastries at a harbor side cafe.  The both of us having suffered through day's of rain, we position are sidewalk cafe chairs to face the sun. We are still mentally drying out. Leaving town, we climbed one monstrous hill, a thousand revolutions in gear one. The terrain flatten out as we road closer to the Normandy beaches.  After fifty-eight miles.  Peter thinks my odometer is under estimating the miles because he registered one hundred kilometers and I should have read sixty-two miles. Either way, we did well for the day.  At 'Juno Beach' we pulled off and found a campsite right by the water.  Set up our tents, showered and headed for town for a delicious dinner: beer and wine, and a four course meal of seafood.  Another good day on the road. Tomorrow we park the bikes and take a bus to Bayeux to check out the famous tapestries depicting the battle of Hastings. Tomorrow night we spend another night at the campsite.

Good times while racking up the miles

       Setting up camp and settling into my tent was like old home week.  Peter, my bicycling buddy, was twenty feet away snoring up a storm.  He keeps telling his wife he doesn't snore....  Once again no toilet seats but the shower was hot and the sun was shining.  After drying off the gear from all the condensation and loading up, we pushed off from La Valary de Caux at 9:47. Down the road at a 10:25 we cruised into near deserted seaside town, Fecamp.  Sitting by the sea wall taking in the rays, we were served a plate of five cheeses on a large plate with pate, du pain, expresso and a small glass of apple brandy. The chalk cliffs loomed nearby while the shoreline and surrounding hills made for an idyllic setting.  Fueled up, Peter and I began the serious peddling. Hill and dale, winding through small roads surrounded by harvested fields, small hamlets and cows with every mile that passed.  Peter showed me the tiny bike signs to follow.  We barely got near any heavily traveled roads.  After several hours of making our way along the coast, we arrived at another seaside town, a little more hip than the first one.  Bought some ice cream and sat on the wall looking out to sea, charming!
      As the miles mounted up, our destination of La Havre appeared in the distance.  Before making the plunge into this huge port city, we found a quaint town where we split a local wine size bottle of local beer and feasted on peaches, nectarines and plums.  After adjusting my new derailleur (which works well enough after learning its quirks), we descended into La Havre.  It took us a good hour and a half to find a place.  Hold up in a classy McDonalds (is that a contradiction in terms) with free wifi, Peter found a hostel of sorts.  A bit pricey but nicely laid out and are own room.  Cleaned up and walked to a local middle eastern mom and pop restaurant where we feasted on a mountain of food and a few beers. Not a bad day, fifty-five miles, not a bad day at all!

Back in the running

    Hopped out of bed at 7:20, apprehensive about my ability to ride today given my throat cold, I packed up, had breakfast and clicked onto the pedals. A long steep hill out of Eu confronted me just as I cleared the town center. Rather than start off hard, I dismounted and walkered. From the top of the hill, off I pedaled gaining confidence with each mile. My throat and chest felt fine and the bike was working well.  A bit hilly on my way to Dieppe but I felt great.  Rolled into town and the sun was shining. Dieppe is a thriving seaside city.  The harbor square was bustling with fish mongers and a few artisan tents were set up. Met three English speaking French men and one told me about a cafe where I could have a nice lunch.  Right in the town square a block back from the harbor, I had a goat cheese and bruschetta sandwich on a baguette.  A delicious sandwich sitting outside of the cafe with the sun at my back, I was loving it.  Local people were gathered doing the same thing. I could have hung out all afternoon.
       After over a hour of chill time, I climbed on the saddle and headed for Saint Valery-en-caux.  Nice ride, a few hills, the ocean off in the distance to my right, huge modern windmills turning, farmland surrounding me and I felt great.  Upon arriving in town, I stopped at the tourist informatio office. A bike loaded up was parked outside. Inside, I met a fellow biker going my way.  It was a breath of fresh air.  Petre Schultz, a Dane from southern Jutland, 65, just retired is doing exactly what I am doing. How cool is that! We found a cafe by the harbor and had lunch together with a celebratory beer.  We rode to a nearby campsite, checked in and set up our tents.  An apple tree was at our site where I was able pick several ripe apples.  We hit it off and will ride together tomorrow.  Forty miles ridden, feeling great and now a riding buddy to hang with.

Good day, sunshine

   Rained all night but the sun shined all day,  I took the bike in for repairs in the rented the van. Helping matters, I feel much better to extent of treating myself to some fine French dining: half a carafe of vin rouge, goat cheese salad, Salmon with yellow rice, chocolate mousse avec passion fruit ice cream  and ending with some local apricot brandy.  Let me not forget the French bread.
       Apart from fixing the bike, I schlepped to the laundramatique and took in some city sites.  A lot of speciality food shops and great looking brick building. I could hang out for a week at this place, no problem. I noticed the realestate prices are up there.
    My bags are packed and let's hope, the machine and me are one tomorrow. No destination in mind, just heading west along the coast.

I should taken my French classes more seriously

      Today in Eu, France just a kilometer out side of Le Treport, I started with a pre-dawn visit to the ER room two blocks away.  Loaded up with meds, I eventually found my way to INTERSPORT, no help from my GPS.  The bike mechanic said I would have to schlepp to Abbeville for a new derailleur and chained at their other store. No wheels and little French left me in a bind as to how I could get the repair done.  Thank the almighty, I found an English speaking person who rents space at the hostel. Charlotte arrange for the hostel manage to drive me to a car rental place where I picked up a Mimi van.  By 9:00 I will be at the bike store to get the job done.  All part of the adventure of living on the edge: wind, rain, cold, mechanical failure and health all in less than a week has toughened the kid up.  I will just carry on, enjoy the ride and duck and cover when necessary.  I like the challenge and it keeps me from softening up and being amongst the American masses who have lost their adventuresome spirit. Another day at Louis XIV chateau before
I push onward. If it does not rain, I will be disappointed.  Like steep hills, I have learned to love the pain.

The gods are paying attention

  Cycled out of Boulogre-sur-mer around 11:00. Late start but a beautiful day, no wind, no rain, sun shining, and the temperature is moderately. Leaving Boulogre-sur-mer, I thought I would try for
Le Tréport.  Suspect of relying on my GPS, I was able to stay on a good road with not too many hairbrain turns.  These system needs to supervised and overridden by one's basic sense of direction.
I should have had a map of Belgium and northeast France. An oversite that has cost me.
      Mile after mile, enjoying the landscaped with only a few steep hills (walkers).  I stopped after thirty-three miles and luncheoned while sitting on the stone base of good size, roadside stone crucifix.  I asked politely before talking a seat.  So after seventy miles with miles of bike path along the way , I arrived at the Le Tréport tourist information, 6:18.  (By the way, France is years ahead of the USA when it comes to bike pathway.) Here is where the day went from idyllic to real bad.  The GPS screwed me once more. Across town for nothing. I called the auberge/hostel for directions to no avail. The manager's English was non existent, worse than my French! As I was taking another route to find the hostel, suddenly my chain and derailleur snapped off.  This can't be happening!  At least it didn't happen out the pokey. I guess someone was looking out for me. So the big push began and I didn't trust my GPS.   It appeared I was walking out of town. Just great, the sun is setting and I haven't a clue if I am heading in the right direction.  Pushing eighty-five pounds of bike and gea, it gets old real fast.  A man at the front desk of a small casino drew a map which final brought me to the auberge, tired and frustrated.  The building was part of Louis XV former residences.  Quite the brick structure which was converted into a hostel, an amazing place. As for the manager, this is the first auberge where no one spoke English.  With people coming from all over the world and English being the international language, it was the wrong person for the job.
    Then came the soar throat.  For a day, it had been coming on.  Suddenly, I could barely swallow withou severe pain. Around 5:30 I got up and managed to find the nearby hospital.  No one there, including the doctor, could speak a word of English. This town is quaint but very providential. The doc and I communicated via our translation apps. He checked me for strep throat. The test came out negative so he wrote out a prescription for several meds.  So off to the pharmacy and the bike shop. I will be here today and probably tomorrow.  Are we having fun yet?
   

Dodging the rain through beautiful countryside

      Yesterday was a Long circuitous ride, trying to bypass Calais.  I woke up to pouring rain and considered holding off another day, however, the show must do on.  The rain stopped, at least for a while, and found my way out of town. Seven miles down the road, the skies opened up.  Fortunately, I found a plexiglass covered bus stop right across the street.  Waited an hour and continue.  My GPS on the bicycle setting took me through the countryside on the most tranquil tiny roads.  The only hassle here is the route was hard to follow and added on several miles more of riding.  The cow manure was omnipotent and the people friendly. The word 'Provincial' was derived out here!  No one spoke a word of English and they looked at me, with all my gear,  like I was ET.  With thirty miles behind me and in need of sustenance, I found another covered bus stop just as the skies opened up again.  Someone was watching out for me.  On the road again, my last twenty-seven miles seemed to get more circuitous.  The damn app led me onto a dirt road which was virtually impassable.  The bike got buried in mud and I ended up pushing for 900 meters.  Ok enough, I just wanted to get to Boulogre-sue-mer.  I should have stayed on a major R road but I stayed with the GPS.  This app leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to getting in an out of cities. Exhausted, at long last, I found a  hostel. In the city it was a well kept secret and my poor French speaking abilities mad it worse. The receptionist found a bucket and brush whereupon I scrubbed mounds of dried mud off my bike.  Lesson learned: know when to follow the sun and rely less on the GPS. The maps I have come into play just down the road.   Today, I have my sites set on Le Treport.   Let's hope for a direct route with nice scenery and fewer wrong turns.  Alas, the sun is shining!

Saw the movie 'Dunkirk' in Dunkirk, France

    The agenda of day was to recharge and checking out the rebuilt city of Dunkirk. My hostel/auberge is a wonder, large modern building apart from the congestion of the city, next to the beach; a room to myself, basic but a beautiful view.  Rode around city doing various errands, one of which was to buy a skull cap to fit under my helmet for warmth.  Next, I stripped down my bike and rode out onto the harbor quays to get a feel for what happened in 1940.  This evening I took in the movie 'Dunkirk'.  A few hours before, I stood on the spot where the admiral stood during the movie.  It was a powerful movie.
    Considered the city was destroyed during the war, it is remarkable how nice the city is now.   Modern architecture side by side with the traditional structures.  Plenty of culture and a stunning view of the beaches and the English Channel.  Squinting, I could just barely see the English coast. So close but so far during the war.
      Check out time is early and rain is expected. Perhaps, the wind gods will spare me. Wind and rain are a bad combination on a bicycle.  The show must go on.

Continuation of my last post

     As is usually the case, the Post mysteriously published.....----ing computers.  The geeks who build the programs are somewhere in cyberspace were common sense doesn't exist.  Common sense isn't so common.  If the computers go down, a lot people will be flapping the breeze, useless as teats on a bull.

   Anyways, Bailleul rebuilt itself and did an outstanding job.  So off I pedal, the narrow country roads and quaint villages separated by rolling farm land was idyllic.  For thirty miles I geared down to cut my way through the head wind.  Three days straight mixed with light rain and unseasonably cool weather.  I am actually settling into the grind of bucking the wind but an alternate plan is brewing.  Now that I am settled into a nice hostel in Dunkirk for two nights, I am weighing my options. Prevailing winds appear to be from the north west.  I will check it out further but, perhaps, I will take a train to Brest and then cycle east.  Then, a train back to Brest and from there, south to Spain

   The Germans laid waste to Dunkirk so essentially the city is completely new. Beautiful architecture, very pedestrian and bicycle friendly, excellent museums and restaurants and plenty of things to see. First, I took in the 1940 Dunkirk battle museum built within the remains of a old coastal fortification. Then the shoreline which has a modern pedestrian bridge, pathways and brick boardwalk all focused on the beach.  The old harbor lighthouses are still in tact and add an interesting juxtaposition to the surrounding architecture.  

     Tomorrow, I will check out the lighthouses, see the movie 'Dunkirk' and do whatever.  The forecast is for 90% rain the next day. This may be the time to make some travel adjustments.

Dunkirk was worth the effort

         After evening beer, wine, delicious dinner and great male bonding with a fellow cyclist, I slept like the dead. Got up to an empty house with the standard continental breakfast prepared for me.  Locked onto the pedals at 8:35 and headed for Dunkirk.  One footnote, Bailleul, the town I stayed in last night was 95% destroyed by the end of WWI.  You won't know it was a completely new town.  They copied another French city

More wind and rain, another adventure

      More wind and spitting rain, thirty nine miles of slow going. The scenery was exceptional but after five hours of driving into the wind, I had to wrap it up.  Arrived in Bailleul, tried to find shelter  on the portico of the city hall, had lunch (du pain, fromage, pate and chocolate), and searched on Warmshowers.com for a place to crash for the night.  Through the tourist information center, I found a nearby member. Charlottes and Alain..  Charlotte biked down from her house to greet me.  No room at her place so she went to work locating other members who could put me up. She brought me home, gave me coffee and sustenance. Absolutely wonder people who opened their house to me and more!
Score, Charlotte found a Warmshowers contact who gave the go ahead.  Alain rode with me through the countryside to Patrice and Caroline's  house. They took me in like I was royalty: new fr room, hot ehower, did my laundry, gave me a sumptuous dinner with wine, fish, rice, fruit, cheese and local reserve beer.  I love this organization; I  take in countless cyclists knowing how wonderful it is to be taken in when exhausted and in need of shelter from the elements. Practiced my French all night and Patrice and Caroline will out of the house before I wake.  Total trust as I do with cyclists who stay with me. Tomorrow, Patrice has lined up a friend in Dunkirk for me. How cool is that at? Three days of tough riding, nevertheless, I would not trade it for anything. Cycling in a foreign land, alone, is an adventure hard to match.

You can't get there from here

Another day, another story to tell. Leaving Mons following the canals was unquestionably on of the most convoluted experiences I have had while cycling.  I could see where I had to be but because of the canals,  I could not get there. Goggle GPS made it worse. Eventually by asking around I was able to weave myself out of the labyrinth.  Again too many miles wasted going around in circles, not as bad as yesterday but still maddening. My original intend was to get to Dunkirk straight off but Belgium is beautiful and worth a lock see. Today only forty-two miles and tomorrow maybe Dunkirk but I am not that obsessed.  The ride along the canals was very pleasant so why rush a good thing?  I stopped for lunch, having brought along Fromage, du pain, pate, an orange and chocolate. Laid back for thirty minutes and had a delicious lunch. Stopping for too long will cause my muscles to tighten up. Finally I arrived in Tournia and found a nice auberge. The place was empty as last night was.  Today I have one roommate, Maxine, a student of art.  Good guy, we had diner together.  His English was marginal, my French not much better. Hanging out with the younger guys is refreshing.  The youth view me as a grandfather, much to my chagrin. I only look in the mirror morning and night so I forget about the balding and gray hair.  Old guys on the rode are very few; Americans non existent. Peut-etre, I will make it to Dunkirk tomorrow. Smelling the roses is foremost.

Rough first day

Mielle Nichols put me up for two night and cooked the most delicious meals I have had in a long time. As though she was my personal gourmet chef.  The bike took 2.5 hours to assembly and tune; the bike is without question a woman.  After a sumptuous breakfast Mielle dropped me off at the Ravel rails-to-trails bike path. Several miles down the road I segwayed onto the canal path.  After three hours of riding, I was in desperate need of a WC, saw a horse stable, parked my bike in the paddock, called around to no avail and finally found a house next door whee the owner kindly let me use his facilities.  I came back to the stable and found my bike missing!On the verge of freaking out, an a white haired man came to the stable door and pretended he knew nothing.  I came through the gate and questioned further, looking as I talked I found my bike in one the stalls. The man became verbally abusing claiming (in French) that I had trespassed.  Explaining my desperate need for a bathroom had no effect. He threaten to call the police, blowing the whole thing out of proportion. I bid him auvoir as politely as I could, realizing he was a class A -------.  In the future, regardless of the plight of my lower extremities, I will lock my bike and put on the motion alarm.
     After gaining my composure with several miles of riding, I was asking directions and realized to my dismay that I had followed the wrong branch of the canal.  Bernard, a local bicyclist amazingly rode back with me ten miles and put me back on track. A twenty mile mistake isn't the first time for me. With the new course came a strong headwind and a light sprinkle of rain. A cool and cloudy mushroomed into a nasty day.  Twenty knot winds slowed me down to a crawl.  Slogging along, buffeted side to side and rain in the face was compounded by several detours to get around various construction projects.  What I hoped would be a day around forty miles ended up being fifty-eight.  The scenery was nice along with these massive machines housed in huge buildings, designed to raise and lower canal barges, avoiding the need for multiple locks.  These elevators were in stark contrast to the scenic pastoral canals. Kind of errie.
    After hours of bucking the headwinds and spitting rain, I rolled into Mons, Belgium, found an auberge (hostel )and settled in.....my aching body!  Fortunately, my room designed for three was all mine. A hot shower, a good snooze and a delicious dinner in a restaurant off the main square brought me back to life. My rear is soar but it will toughen up with the days to come. Tomorrow, Fifty-five miles to Dunkirk might be a stretch but let's see I how I feel at sunrise.  Dunkirk is the official starting point for my ride along the coast of France.

bicycling the coast of France

After Months of preparation and planning I am on way to France to bicycle the coast.  Brother Robert was kind to deliver me at Logan airport, Boston.  Dragged my two monster pieces of luggage to check-in,  over one hundred pounds of gear.  As expected I had to juggle parts between the two in order to meet the weight requirement.  After a $100 overweight charge, $190 for the bike (round trip) and some heavy lifting of my luggage, I am ready to board an A380.  This plane is absolutely huge,  a double decker and fully booked.  And I hear that airbus is trying to squeeze in 60 additional seats and adding giant winglets. onto the wings.  The planes have 't been selling because they are not economic enough.  Anyways, let's just get there. Brussels or bust.

Day 1

    Three months of pondering, two months of planning all boiled down to thirty days of cycling in Cuba. I had my doubts given all the hoops I had to jump through. The Treasury Department requires US citizens to pick one of their twelve categories within the general license, being a tourist isn't allowed. With diplomatic relations restored, this requirement is in name only. As a "journalist", I am gathering facts on how to navigate the regulatory  regulator shoals in order to visit Cuba. By the way, I was told not to mention to Cuban immigration that I a journalist; that requires a special Cuban visa. Don't bring dollars, there is ten percent surcharge on top of the three percent conversion fee. Canadian dollars are easy to get at any major bank free of charge if you are member. Hiding it is the innovative part. Any ticket you book to Cuba includes a $25 charge for the Cuban medical insurance policy. Hold onto your boarding pass for the final leg to Cuba; it is proof of you having paid for a medical policy. At your last port/airport before flying to Cuba, the airline sells the Cuban tourist card/visa good for thirty days, $50, credit card only. Upon arrival, immigration takes half of the tourist card. Save the other half for getting out of the country, guard it with your life.
    The flight was uneventful but my departed from Boston at 5:35am was an ungodly hour, considering that I rose at 3am to get Login with an hour and a half to spare; bright and ugly as they say. God bless brother Robert for getting me there on time. His dachshund, Simon, insisted on boroughing under my covers which made for a restless three hours of sleep. In my zombie state, I slept most of the flight. The plane touched down safely and we weren't strafed by Cuban fighter planes; however the plane sat on the tarmac for thirty minutes until the right government official was found to open the plane door.  Welcome to Communism. As for the real fun, my luggage took two hours to recover at the Havana terminal.   Schlepping over sized luggage only added to the misery. The bicycle was delivered to one end of the terminal, me not having a clue. The other bag was delivered to another conveyor belt other than the one announced. No one spoke English and my Spanish was close to non existent. It was a screwed up arrangement. Too much fun for one day. Now, to exchange currencies into Cuban CUCs, in essence, tourist currency.    As I read before the trip, going up to Departures made for a much shorter cue at the bank conversion area. The line still moved at a snails pace. Nothing moves fast in Cuba. To avoid the wait, I asked around for people trading in their CUCs ( which are worthless out of the country) and scored eighty CUCs for $80 thus avoiding any exchange fees. Hailing a cab was equally as easy. Taxis needn't wait in line in arrivals if intercepted immediately after dropping off departing passengers. Nice driver, new car and he found my casa in the middle of town without much problem. Yany, the proprietor, immediately step out on the sidewalk to enthusiastically great me, hugging me with big smile as if I were family.  Finally, finally I had arrived, a bit worn down but still coherent. She offered me a cold beer as I crossed the threshold, good brew of which I will have many during my ride through Cuba. Everything I saw driving to the casa looked in need of repair. Yany has a nice place (based on Cuban standards), one guest room which she had redone less than a year ago. Here I am finishing up my blog, getting settled. Tomorrow, the bike gets assembled.

Day 2

  I assembled the bike after Yany made me breakfast. Great coffee like no other, decent breakfast: guava, scrambled eggs, pineapples juice, bread and cheese. Assemblying my bike was a cake walk compared to trips before when the entire bike was totally disassembled. Only two hours tops this time around compared to an all day affair and loads of frustration. Afterwards, Yany and headed out for lunch, buy food and see Old Town. I treated her to lunch at a local restaurant nearby, quiet, nice atmosphere and good food. I never would have found it on my own. She called her bicycle taxi friend, Rauol, who drove us around much to my delight, two rides in all. He sang as he pedal, shouting greetings to people he knew along the way, so much fun. Yany gave me the inside scoop as to where to shop and how. It would have been a struggle had I tried to figure out myself. She lead me from one store to another helping me buy road food. Tourism is the Country's main source of foreign currency.  Old Town is ground zero for tourism, old restored fifties cars are everywhere. Unlike the rest of the city, which is in terrible shape, the old capital and several old hotels are being brought back to life. Starting after the US and Cuba normalized relations. Americans began flooding the island and the government, who owns everything, is scrambling to "capitalize" on this influx.  The US embargo has destroyed the country's infrastructure and put the people through enormous hardship. Realistically, if there weren't an embargo, Cuba would still be screwed up. The government ensures everyone a roof, enough food to subsist, a great education, decent medical, equality amount all races, but beyond that the people have zip.
     Ok, so here we go, tomorrow if I hit the road on two wheels, leg power only.  My knee hurts when I walk because of some injury I sustained from either jumping from a boat to the dock or when I slipped off a rafter when redoing my kitchen.  Pedaling is no problem.  I pray that my knee will hold up through the trip.  After a long day cruising around Havana with Yany, I made it home pretty much worn out, I packed my bags, loaded the bike and blinked twice before I was dead to the world for eight hours.

Day 3

I shoved off at 8:30 after Yany fed me. Not much traffic And the cars and trucks gave me loads of room. They all ride bikes and have empathy for the bicyclist. It rained like hell up until about 1pm. Suited up but it still was a wet affair. Despite the bag covers, the intensity of the rain aggravated by poor road drainage, everything got pretty soggy. To make matters worse, there is no emission control on any of the vehicles. The factories and power plants pour out black smoke like no one every heard of global warming. I couldn't get away from the exhaust fumes, not a good situation. The roads are marginal at best, pot holes everywhere, bridges with broken or missing railings. My route took me along the coast until I dropped down at La Boca and eventually found my way to A4. The highway was devoid of good scenery; thank god my Bluetooth headset and itunes. The skies cleared and humidity took its toll, I poured down bottle after bottle of water. My goal was Las Terrazes, much longer than I wanted to ride my first day. The turn off to Las Terrazes was a never ending climb for several miles. I rolled into the park resort totally wasted. Found a Casa Particular from a man who flagged me down who knew led me to a casa particulare.   Nice folks, fantastic diner for all of ten dollars. The bathroom though clean had only cold water and no toilet seat. I was not impressed but didn't say anything. The language barrier didn't"t help,  Thank god for my offline Spanish translation app. I may hang out here for another day to recover and take in the sites.

Day 4

Chilled the whole day, exchanged money at the hotel up the hill, read my novel for several hours, zonked out in the afternoon and had a restless night. The lower GI reared its ugly head and fearing I might be coming down with dysentery I downed a pill to nip it in the bud. Their seatless toilet was not up to the job which was a bit of embarrassing the next morning. Jesus The Husband's name)was under the house banging on the sewer pipe. Their pressure was no match what it had to handle. I suspect this is a recurring problem for them. Perhaps it was the chicken that Bianna fed me. Toughest bird I ever ate, damn near had to get a chainsaw to cut it.

Day 5

      Sleep was a foreign word come morning. With hand gestures and pathetic Spanish, I explained about the clogged toilet. They didn't seem to upset. Moving right along, they keep hustling me to shell out more money for this and that, including a CD of his band. i was forewarned about the ripper off mentality of the Cubans.  They are desperate for money. Foreigners are rich in their eyes. Now I write it down the rate and show the owners so there will be no misunderstandings.  I feel sorry about their plight, communism and all, but I reached my limit this morning. Set off at 8:15, mistakenly took the long way out, tacking seven miles onto the day's ride. Took highway A4 which is boring but direct; stopped for almost two hours to get through the hottest time of the day. Sat in the shade, ate, read, chilled and then setting out again. Being Saturday, the hitch hikers were abundant as were the rides offered by passing traffic. Hitchhiking is legal in in Cuba and is encouraged by the government. A dump truck full of riders even stopped to offer me a ride. "Muchas Gracias, yo OK, I am set" .He figured it out and drove off in a cloud of exhaust. Rode for an hour and poured down water every few miles, went through six liters of aqua, at least. Stopped off at a nice roadside tourist stop and downed a pint of strawberry ice cream, the worst stuff I ever had but I didn't care, it was cold! The heat and lack of scenery was remedied by my itunes. With a few kilometers to go before reaching Pinar del Rio after covering over seventy miles, a rare Cuban racing bicyclist with tights pulled up along side me.  Josef and I hit it off, especially since I was an Americano.  He lead me to a nice casa particulare where we sucked down a few well deserved beers. During our ride through the town, I was solicited by a driver for another casa particulare. These people are husking for every buck, things are tough. After I had myself to myself,  Sixto's wife fed me a delicious dinner on the patio under a Mango tree, chicken, fruit, Cole slaw with tomatoes, veggies, Mango-guava juice and more. Josef, Sixto, Pedro and I had a good talking about cycling and politics. Their "special period" after the Soviet Union collapsed was brutal on them. Now the Chinese are helping them meet their oil needs. back in the 1990s when there was no fuel, everyone road bikes, if they could afford one, and grew as much food as they had space to plant around their casas. Times are better now, kind of.  "The special period"  must have been a ten year nightmare.  Back to the casa particulare and Josef; he called a friend over, Pedro. They all wanted to speak English and helped me with my Spanish. I told them about the States but they are forbidden to leave Cuba.  Maybe in five years when Raul is dead and the government loosens its grip will they be able to travel outside of the country. Tomorrow Josef and I ride south from Pinar de Rio twenty Kilometers. I have made a friend. There is a cigar factory he wants to show me. After the visit I head west. Who knows where I will end up tomorrow night. My body is getting warmed up and adjusting to the long rides. The heat is another issue.

Day 6

   As usual, a great breakfast. Josef showed up before nine as did Pedro and another friend. What am I , a celebrity? Pictures of us all, thanked Sixto and hit the road with Josef. Stopped at the bank on Sunday, no less, before riding twenty clicks out to a famous tobacco plantation for cigars. Robaino cigars started in 1845, which Castro did not nationalize. Had the complete one man tour until a group of men from Ohio showed up. Very informative, the tour guide really know her stuff. Before I could leave I had to visit the cigar store. I bought five because that was my plan but once again my money was suck away. Five cigars of different types, $28! Josef and I headed back a few kilometers where we hugged and went our different direction. Nice guy, crazy laugh, needs a few teeth and I thoroughly enjoyed him. He helped me with my Spanish all morning, I am very slowly getting better. A course is in order when I get back. We promised to write, Josef in English, me in Spanish. The heat cranked up and any hope for clouds disappeared. Stopped at Martin by the town square, had lunch from my food supply, bought some pina (pineapple) and then headed out. The heat and sun beat on me so I took an hour break at a road side out door watering hole. Along the way to Santino, I met up a naturalize Cuban American who grew up in Santino. He was in a rented car with his girlfriend. Gave me his father's motel address along with some cold water and juice. Nice enough guy hustling for his father. Coming into town after near fifty miles, I checked into the wrong Casa Particular and couldn't back out once I committed. I felt bad about it. Maybe on my way back I will check the father's place out. The place I am at presently is owned by a doctor, real nice house in Cuban standards. Great dinner, nice room with the refrigerator loaded with beer (one cuc/each) and more. Ivan and his wife raise pigs, chicken (real good looking rooster), Mango, avocados and other fruits which I have never seen. Great folks but can't speak a word of English. Castro would not allow it to be taught in the schools. Can you believe it? They served me lobster tails and no chicken for a change, pork was on the menu also. The Ivan helped me book a place down the shore, La Bajada, where I am headed tomorrow, only one Casa Particular there. Forty-four Ks and I hope to get in a swim and some chill time. My body is getting into the groove despite the heat.

Day 7

Another hot one and I shoved off around nine. I need to get off by eight, tomorrow manana? The road to Bajada was a jaw rattled for much of the way. With virtually no cars and trucks I had the entire road to myself, weaving around potholes and craters. Two hours, no one but me no cars, trucks, horse drawn carts, just me. Even no trash, a welcome site. Finally around a bend, out in nowhere, just forest, a whitish horse stood in the middle of the road. By its side was an egret, a very peculiar site. I slowly pedaled by offering my greetings with no reaction from either of them. With heat, the shade from the road had me riding in the right side of the road. Finally After fifty-five kilometers of abuse coupled with the heat. Thinking the town was in a national park, I checked in at the control point where I was issued a pass, once again my passport and visa exchanged hands. Every day at some point my passport is needed. The casa particulars always require it. After a few Ks I turned back finally had the soldiers direct me around the corner to the town. Talk a sleepy little seaside hamlet, this place was it. The casa de Mars was one hundred meters down the dirt road. Dogs, pigs everywhere, I checked in. Kiki could not speak a word of English and my Spanish severely lack, Henrique was summoned to save the day. He rounded me up a cold beer from his open bar with thrashed roof. patio. My blue tooth worked On their sound system, great to hear my tunes. Henrique and I bonded over few brews followed by the arrival of a French couple. Dinner wit lobster again either works. Hit the bar for a night for some Cuban rum and apricot juice. Read until midnight. The power went out along with the a/c for the second time. Such is Cuba. Tomorrow is a relaxation and some beach time with my french friends, Corern and Henri from Strasberg.

Day 8

5:20 came early so I could catch the 6:00 bus to Sandino. It poured so hard during the night, the rain came thorough my window louvres (no screens) and soaked one half of my bed. Came face to face with a huge spider which I wasted no time in neutralizing. Anyways, the driver would not allow the bike so I tried to catch some zzzs before Everyone stirred. My French friends, Corine and Philip, were surprised to see me again, but we had a nice breakfast before I set out for Santino. At about forty miles, I pulled into a check point and asked if they could find me a ride to Pinar del Rio while I had lunch. Everyone hitch hikes and I don't like covering ground I have already covered. Having just planted my self, the check point official stepped out onto the road, stop a truck and secured me a ride. Three of us lifted the bike on board and off we went. It was fifties model good size truck with a metal dashboard and no seat belts. Boris drove with abandon, Carlos rode shotgun and we had a fun time figuring out what each other was saying. They drove me thirty miles right into downtown Pinar del Rio, along the way Senor Boris pass cars and trucks in death defying maneuvers; I managed to stay cool, at least on the outside. With a business card in hand, a local black kid brought me to the casa in question. Henrique, the English speaking bartender who worked at Bahada who worked at this Casa, was not there and the place was booked. I checked into a casa across the street. This place had the best bathroom yet, toilet seat, nice full shower head, very clean and professionally built. I let Ivan know. As usual, the quantity of food was massive and I slept reasonably well. Finished the book, "A Time to Kill" and started another about William Tecumsa Sherman, good so far. My Spanish is improving ever so slowly.

Day 9

A real long ride, over 115k, 72 to the Havana city limits, 20 through town to the boat shuttle, 25 west to the seaside town of Guanabo. Running on empty and dripping wet, I finally found a casa that wasn't full. Anna the owner ordered for me Take Out along with two cold beers,$5! Nice casa, relatively speaking, toilet seat and TP, nice layout and almost everything worked. Her place has an eight foot wall with barb wire on top, rebar boxes covering her windows and cemented in glass shards on the wall separating her neighbors. My bike stayed in my room? She has a good stream of customers who bring in enough cash for her to build a second floor, step by step. It is tough doing. The roads are a wreck outside her house. For the first time I saw a first class casa. So wealthy individual from the Chek Republic who married a Cuban woman restored an old house. Foreigners can't own land. The town has potential but the liter is everywhere, no street trash cans plus no one seems to care, sidewalks broken up, holes the roads. The beaches are nice but that is it. Prices may be low here but I couldn't see living here. Cuba is a mess!

Day 10

Burned out a bit from the long hot ride from San Cristobal to Guanabo but I rallied. Got a late start after going to the bank and three stores to get the food I needed. Anna led me around and, as usual, there was a line everywhere I went. The food selection was poor although everything was dirt cheap. Started cranking at 10:15 and the temperature was already climbing. The energy just wasn't there. Then came the granny gear hills, up and down over several. Took a break at a concrete bus stop which gave me shade but was rundown and poorly maintained. Sat out the heat for almost an hour then start off with only one water bottle left. At long last, I found a tourist area with a thatcher roof open air pavilion. I knew I needed to find a place soon; I had replenished my water but the body was calling it a day. As advised in Spanish, a seaside village was five kilometers ahead. The turn off took me down a very steep hill into a valley where a very modest resort was located. The camping and cottages was designated for Cubans only. Renewal of diplomatic relations didn't help nor did my exhausted appearance. The director indicated that a place was up the hill. Off I climbed , stopping four times to gather my strength, the hill was a monster and the heat was blazing. Bingo, the place was an organically run casa where I could set up my tent, shower and meals included. Only five CUCs to camp with lunch and breakfast twelve CUCs. There is a god, Elissa, not your typical Cuban, welcomed me with open arms. The place was charming. Her cooking under the thatched roof dinning area was outstanding. Three German kids and an Estonian family were there. Flo, Christopher, Katherine, Mikel,(can't get his wife's and daughter's names). We Drank rum and had a good time talking it up. My first night in my tent was home sweet home. Tomorrow is a rest day. 

Day 11

Restless night with only my sleeping bag liner. Great breakfast followed by walk with everyone, led by Elissa. Down a very step and shaky path. Same Cuban resort as we leveled our. Hung out at the water's edge, did some snorkeling and relaxed. Climbed the monster hill and Elissa cooked us a killer organic lunch. Fish was the only meat. Napped, read, showered, washed clothes, ate again, and shot the breeze. Mikel went into great detail as to how he makes beer. He grows his own hopes which I want to do. Of all the guests, Flo (German guy) and I bonded. He is off for three months traveling down through Mexico into South America. Elissa and everyone helped me map a good route which hopefully won't be too strenuous and end me up in nice places. The alarm is set for seven; I need to beat the heat. I hate to leave this place.

Day 12

Left Bucunayagua, made tracks for Cardenas, followed the coast through Matanzas and Varafero. I rolled int a big ugly town 200,000) but found a decent Casa ( in Cuban terms) just on the edge of town on a side street. The street looked beat but the casa had a decent operation going. Juan Carlos and Maria have several apartments in the casa and are pushing towards making iir nto hotel. He has no car, only a old bicycle to haul his gear for setting up hot water tanks for bathrooms. Typical of Cuba, well educated as an engineer but makes a pathetic income. Juan Carlos took me via a horse taxi, which are everywhere, to the bank and a bar for a few cold beers. His English is as bad as my Spanish but we communicated well enough to have a good time. Video taped the taxi ride back, music and all. Apparently, the town was a big American hangout before Castro took over. The city is a pathetic shell of what it once was. The casa rents also to a company who works with epoxy coatings, Cuban entrepreneur hooked up with a Montreal company. After dinner, Raoul, Rudolpho and three others hung out with me. The two partners spoke decent English. We talked their business, baseball and how t he government stifles business. Acquiring a simple pickup like mine takes an act of god. Funny time we had together, about six of us.

Day 13

A short ride to Colon, not much of anything to talk about, the same old rundown conditions everything I find everywhere. My room has a steel door which gave the room a prison effect. The older woman who greeted me told me I had to store my bike in the back room. Apprehension set in so I locked the bike to a rail and set the alarm. Not to soon afterwards, the alarm went off. I raced out and saw the woman standing by the bike. She made hand jesters that something had fallen off the thatched roof and I should pull my bike further under the roof. Little did I realize that she was lying and, in fact, had stolen my light. The next morning the owner acted strangely and she was abrupt in saying goodbye. I had to return because I still had the room key. I could see her concern, not realizing what it was about. Not until I was ten k down the road did I notice the light missing. American woman who had visited Cuba and a French resident warned me never to let woman into my room, referring to the maids. My gears are whirring on this matter. I will keep an inventory of my gear and trust no one.

Day 14

Anxious to get an early start, I pushed off from Colin at 7:30 and rode all day. Took a forty-five minute break, found water, had a small lunch and talked up with the local boys in Cardagena. No one spoke English so I managed with my limited Spanish and a lot of sign language. Nowhere really to stop along the way so I pushed on through the heat, drinking liter after liter, one pokey town after another. Everywhere I go, people stare, it is constant. 110k later I rolled into Ceinfuegos; used my offline gps app and wove my way through the city. At the town square I was bombarded by men hustling Casas, tropical of cities here. One guy on his bike intercepted me. I checked him out and the Casa business card, whereupon he led me to a pretty nice casa on the water. The bike came into my room this time. After a few hours of down time, the Cuban guy on the bike, Ivan, came by. Just a hundred feet down the road there was a restaurant where he had a beer and I dinner. Everyone there was a tourist, Cubans can't afford to dine out. Ivan lamented about the Cuban plight but times are slowly changing. Tomorrow I staying put. Mountains await me on my way to Trinidad after which I may take a bus to Santiago de Cuba. The mid section is nowhere and not worth riding. As well, I am running short of time.

Day 15

The casa owner, Rosa, and her boyfriend, Derry, took me around to find food. No cheese to be had anywhere. We must have gone to five stores trying find what I needed, lines everywhere as well as basic food simply not available, communism has cripple Cuba. Rosa and Derry think I am rich, they can't afford to out to restaurants or any such luxury. We went into a bar/restaurant which I never would have found is the door hit me in the face. I paid almost all the bill, $10 because I knew they couldn't. In talking about Castro early over a beer in an open cafe, they warned to keep it down when talking about Fidel, they motioned about handcuffs and being arrested. That night here woman Friday prepared a killer dinner for me. Eating at the Casas is the cheapest and the best way to go. From $7-$10 I dine like a god.

Day 16

Got off at 7:30 and rode fifty-five miles. The hills were tough for a while but I cranked along, brazing heat for the last fifteen miles, and made it to Trinidad in 5 1/2 hours. The nicest town so far, cobble stones, historic buildings and hordes of tourists, every country but the USA. A bicitaxi, I said hi to in passing, tracked me down seeing that I was in need of a casa Particulari. Apprehensive as always he took me to his mother's house, nice people but I trust no one when it comes to my bike and gear. My bike is locked to my bed with the alarm on and the door locked. After a shower Yoel drive me down tin his bicitaxi too the bank to exchange money. Met some older French couples where I tried my best to speak their language, we had a fun time waiting in line. The bank door guard only let's in a few people at a time. Sauntered around town two for a few hours finally finding a small bar filled with only Cuban men with guitars, singing it up, guitars and all. Very professional and only ten of us, no tourists but me, it was very cool. We hit it off, switched to run from beer as they suggested and avoided getting sucked into paying for a round, only one guy persisted. Somehow found my way back to the casa via help from several passers by. Mercedes, the mother, and her daughter, Louisa, cooked me a feast. Without much persuasion, I am staying two nights. Tomorrow I will check the train and buses to Santiago de Cuba, a long ride either way.

Day 17

Slept in until 7:05, luxury! Found the bus station, signed up, went to the bank, loaded up on CUCs, took in a revolutionary museum and a church on the town square, found a local place for lunch and dodged tourists, bicitaxi, buses, motorbikes, 1950's American cars and whatever else was coming my way. One thing which I find appalling is the lack of concern for the street dogs which fend for themselves and are half starved. At my casa way in the back I can across a house dog on a chain no more than three feet long. When I went to pet him, he began peeing immediately.. It was a pathetic scene that clarified to me just how screwed up things are down in Cuba. Cruelty to animals says a lot about a society. I actually picked up an internet card. Talk about a Lousy deal, in and out it went, wifi was on the square but close to useless. I should have used the money to feed the starving street dogs. After trying for an hour to connect my tablet to download a book, I quit and went back to the casa. Is anything in this country that isn't FUBAR? Cigars, rum, beaches, perhaps? I am off to Santiago de Cuba at 7:30 and will guard my bike like my life depends on it. I am still undecided about my plan of action after a day in Santiago. Do I hang out at some small beach community or do I make run for Havana via the north shore or close to it? Maybe I can get in some stealth camping, no one seems to mind. Heading west and living off the land out in nowhere is enticing. I thrive on challenges.

Day 18

Up before day break, breakfast was on the table. Yoel arrived on his day off to escort me to the bus station on his bibitaxi. Traversing the stone streets is tough for them, talk about being in shape. Yoel did the talking and hung around until I left. Cuba men kiss on the cheek when the hug goodbye, not an air kiss either. In Rome do as the Romans do. The ride was over thirteen hours, sat next to a Brit. Had to take off the front wheel and seat then cable lock the bike and bags to the bus storage frame; I am hyper paranoid about getting ripped off. Rode in an old Chinese greyhound with engine problems, Cuba as usual. My casa particulari people were waiting me for when I arrived. Yoel's brother's mother-in-law who owns the casa in Trinidad made the connection. Big city, no place to arrive late at night without something arranged. Someone is looking out for me. The Santiago casa owners met me in their 1956 chevy. I assembled the bike and followed them home. Nice pad on top of a short steep hill, great view with a balcony patio. With over 650 miles to Havana and not enough time, I will spend two nights in Santiago, cruise the coast and then take the bus back to Havana. Like Ireland, thirty days is not enough but the tourist visa is for thirty days, no extensions.

Day 19

Once again the electric set up in my casa is frightenin; just be careful what you touch. This place has a upper deck overlooking the city; great spot for breakfast. Stripped the bike down and cruised the city, small motorcycles everywhere, deafening but didn't take and crap from them. Checked out the Commie monuments and Fidel's tomb...... Santiago is dramatically cleaner than Havana, generally nicer place. Good roads as well. It took me over two hours, countless bad directions and six stores before I found bread, cheese and fruit. A local who spoke English saved the day. My perception is that the folks are a bit dim and have never travelled beyond their light cal neighborhood. What a screwed up place, be real grateful for what you have. And, everyone is always extracting a tip from you with a shrug that it should be more. The Cubans are treading water. Joel, my savior for the day, knows my casa owner. We had a beer together whereupon I chilled in my room, ate some decent bread, for a change, cheese and beer. After a nap, I woke to a group of guys across the narrow street on the second floor, tuning up for some Salsa music. Bass, sax, horns, keyboard, etc., gorgeous night overlooking Santiago; my personal band over a delicious diner, pretty cool! Tomorrow I attack the mountains on my way to Baracoa. Six days to squeeze in what I can before busing back to Havana. Cuba is trying but it makes for a fun adventure.

Day 20

Fumble around getting a bus ticket to Havana for early March 12, Alexis was with me and found a guy exchanging money on the street for a better rate. My first experience with the underground economy. We found a dark corner on the pedestrian shopping street. Finally shoved off around 9:45. Clocked 40 miles, late start and the heat shut me down..With the exception of a feel climbers my ride was excellent, followed the ocean on my left and had the wind at my back. Pulled into Guama where I was hailed by Roberto, total wack job. He found me a store with water and nectar and showed me his place, a total dump. No way, but he took me to a nice casa which was one of the best. Met some Americans which was a pleasant surprise. Wifi in the park so I caught on some of news and 365 emails. Everything revolves around Trump, what a jerk, a dangerous one. Off early tomorrow and hope to get fifty miles in.

Day 21

I endured one of the worst rides I have ever experienced. At fifty miles of deteriorated roads, three collapsed bridges which were barely passable and partially collapsed, washed out roads by the shore due to last falls hurricane. The fill used to make the roads passable again made for difficult bicycling. The hills became more frequent, longer and steeper; the heat cranked up. Thankfully I brought along extra water. The roads with all the potholes and bad patching jobs jarred me silly. At what seemed an eternity, I arrived at the arranged casa pretty much on empty. I passed on dinner and hung out with a fun French couple, Yul and Claire, and drank some rum with them. They are cycling Cuba for three months. No way I could tolerate this island for that long. Yul was once a world class sailor but almost died doing so. Now he and Claire renovate old houses. The more I size this country up, the more I am disgusted with the place. Most people are decent folks but everyone is out to suck the money out of you one way or the other. People are desperate to make ends meet, a doctor only makes $50 a month. It is irritating and always has me on guard. Every time I ride into a town for the night. I am hustle to stay in a casa particulari. Always, they want to know how much my bike costs. Telling any Cuba I am American is putting a price tag on my head. I am learning how to survive down here, but the lessons are painful. The owner of the casa has a Canadian significant other who spends six months out of the year down here. God bless him.

Day 22

The French couple and I set off at 7:30 whereupon we encountered a monster hill/mountain. Grinding up the grade made me think of the needless equipment I brought with me. After this climb we rode for twenty kilometers through more or less level terrain. We part ed as they were heading south to nice seaside town. Had I had more time, I would have joined them. With the wind in my face I forged on to Manzanillo. Ninety-two k/57 miles in total, Had two coconut Frescas at a local stand as I rode into town. These drinks are thick and frosty and add new life to a tired body. At the stand, a local, Peter/ Pedro, knew where my casa was and led me there. The town is big, hustlers everywhere and the casa not easy to find. Peter navigated me through the jungle, god bless the man. He was a mathematics profession at the university level but shifted over to taking care of the sick, washing them and such, at the local hospital. In two days I have met two university professors who could not make a living do what they were trained to do. Communism is a horrible nightmare down here. The casa owner, Reuben, was on the side walk and called out my name as I rode up. Beautiful layout with no funky Cuban arrangements. My bike is downstairs and he assured me it would be fine. I told him about my light being the ripped off. My cable lock is around the bike and through a chair back, paranoia is always lurking. No dinner tonight just a pitcher of fruit Fresca. Another long ride tomorrow.

Day 23

Got the earliest start yet, 7am. An hour into the ride to Bayamo, a rough set of railroad tracks sprung the lower attachment hook from one of my front panniers. The repair took forty five minutes and fortunately I had the tools necessary. A bit further down the road I passed a French Canadian. Hauling on our brakes, we chewed the fat, exchanged information and the along came an English couple going my way. Pictures, laughs, exchange of information and the Brits and I were headed for the same casa in Bayamo. Via a nice casa the previous night and their recommendation for the next town/night, the Casas have been pretty decent operations. It eliminates being hustle upon arrival in each new town. It was nice to cruise with someone I could identify;we arrived at noon, dodged the afternoon blowtorch. It is definitely hotter on the eastern side of the island. After scribbling some laundry, I walked to the city center and checked out the stores, museums and people. The town is clean even if one large historic structure was braced on two sides with long steel beams; fairly typical of the condition of buildings down here. Craving a classic coke (from Mexico), I found a food store with some but spent twenty minutes in line waiting to pay for it. Everyone spends probably in hour a day standing in line, it is a communist thing. Had dinner with the Brits, wonderful time. An elderly British woman, 74, who Cadi and Jamie met a few days before, has bicycled around the world. Roselyn is biking 50 miles tomorrow; blows my mind!!!! Where are the American woman?!! There is no excuse for our lazy, over indulged American women. I want an American cycle partner in the biggest way. In all my bicycling, I have come across only two American couples. How pathetic is that? I am disgusted and frustrated. Tomorrow, the ride would be a torturous 130k and not much to see. I will take the bus to Havana the day after tomorrow a so I can't screw around. The bus it is, Santiago at 8:30am.

Day 24

For some reason, my body clicks on about 6am. Had a very pleasant desayuno with my British friends on the roof top patio. Telling the casa owner that I am writing an article for Adventure Cycling Magazine got his attention. Stealing from a guest is the kiss of death for their business. Before leaving for bus, the casa owner called forward to another casa in Santiago, one less thing to worry about. Now for bus experience. Not remembering that there were two bus stations, I found myself on a peoples' bus, essentially a crude metal container with steel benches facing each other and grates to see out. These cattle crates are bolted to the chassis of old 1950s trucks. They are everywhere. They leave the station when the bus is full, I mean packed! If I had gone to the bus terminal down one block, I would have ridden in a coach. Three hours of being bounced around, elbow to elbow. Thank god for a nice guy who spoke good English. Talked the whole way to Santiago, he is a computer science software guy, clued me in the bad dudes on board. With every stop, hawkers of snacks would board and sell their goods, quite the scene. We are meeting tonight for beer and dinner. I offered to pay but he said not to worry. Maybe he works for the government, who knows. Good English and no money concerns aroused my suspicion, paranoia strikes again. Found the casa, nice folks. They will provide breakfast at 4:45am manana before I bike down to the bus. My friend from the bus, Alvin, did not show as scheduled so I walked up to the pedestrian walk and had dinner at a nice hotel, refined for the tourist but a bit much for my austere taste. Bicycling solo in Cuba has been challenging, an experience like no other. My first third world ride, difficult breaking through my comfort zone to pull it off. If I can convince someone to join me, preferable a female companion, I may make the trip again, focusing on the small coast villages, short rides under thirty miles before mid day. Hoping for an American rider may be pipe dream but I will persist.

Day 25

Sixteen hours on a bus from Santiago to Havana through inland nothingness was a day I will never get back. New bus, Chinese of course, but a long slow slog. Met up with with an older Brit gay couple, David and Chris, had a funny time, especially when the bus stopped for lunch. The restaurant was virtually invisible from the street but they were all set up and ready for the hordes. Chicken leg and thigh with rice and beans for the fiftieth time. David had fish that could have sufficed for a piece of wood. There being two drivers for the long trip, one tried to get me to buy him a bottle of water. Once again the Cuban hand was in my pocket. Watched a subtitled shoot 'em up flick and a dubbed James Bond movie. Bond (Brosman) and Judy Dench are just not themselves in Spanish. In the beginning the music videos blared and I was greatful to have my Bluetooth headset. Finally upon arrival (16 hours) I climbed under the luggage compartment and extracted my bike, assembled the seat and front wheel, loaded up and road several kilometers to Yani's where she fed me peanut butter and bread avec cerveza. Her friend across the street put me up for the night; tomorrow and the next I move back to Yani's casa. Tomorrow, I go shopping for coffee beans, a Havana hat and a Cuba flag, maybe some rum as well.

Days 26

Yani put me up at a neighbor's casa particulari, slept like I was dead. The casa next door had at one point been a nice place but over 60 years of neglect has taken its toll. Met and English couple staying at her place, fun guy, turned me on to an English hat maker. I want a linen pork pie hat. Spent the morning disassembling the bike and packing everything.. I am heading home! Yano and I cruised the tourist district and witnessed the standard issue tourists thinking they were experiencing Cuba..not. A craft beer in a converted open dockside warehouse, government owned, had decent dark beer with mediocre food. I was too Hungary to care, just as long to could have a cervasa. The government thinks they can do it all but it falls short just about in every category. Purchase a Cuba flag and a halve kilo of java beans. Prices were outrageous. Bargainer as best we could. We worked our way back to real Cuba. Yani cooked me dinner, I bought the beer. Wonderful person with strong a desire to improve her life, taking a huge financial gamble to do so. We discussed her plans and life. Getting into mind of a Cuban was an eye opener.

Day 27

A day to shop, to buy those items on the list of must have Cuban item. Yani turned me on to a huge market where the deals were. Walked part way and flagged down a bicitaxi the remainder of the way. Impressed that I had bicycled Cuba, he suggested I take his place. I made him the tourist as I did the pedaling, funny for both of us. I could biked for several blocks. He was amazed that a tourist had the legs to do the job, a first for both of us. The market was a zoo of small vendors selling the same old tourist crap but did manage to score a cool Havana pork pie hat. Also found a guy who had a woman hat maker who can make a custom hat. Yani will work the deal so I don't get hosed. Found a good artist section and picked three small prints. Met a very interesting guy (a physiologist) selling the art. Once again another highly educated person who had to settle for much less to make ends meet. So much talent in Cuban gone to waste. With the goods in hand, I wove my way back into real Cuba where I had lunch at two left food stands. Looking like a tourist but paying in pesos drew some curious looks. Throughout the day I took a good look at all the deteriorating buildings, documented it. A tragedy in the works, old Havana had such charm. With every living in the edge, only a few buildings have been maintained. Once home I washed my shorts for my trip back to the states tomorrow. Yani's Casa has been my regfuge from the madness of Cuba. She stored my bags while I was on the road. Payback, I took her Out in the town. Via some communal taxis of old American cars we made our way over to a nice restaurant, pulled out the stops, red wine and dessert included. Yani took up to a bar on the thirty-third floor for a drink and good music. Service sucked but rum mellowed me out. The restaurant and bar had never used an American credit card that worked, I was the first! Tomorrow is lift off, I am so real to leave Cuba; an experience I will never forget.

Day 28.

(Lost a couple of days somewhere) Up early, the same cab and driver drove me to the airport, three hours to spare, remember this is Cuba. Here the aggravation began. Checking in at JetBlue, they required payment in CUCs. For my luggage. Assuming an American airline would use dollars, I was surprised and irritated that the Cuban government was once again bleeding tourists of their money. I had to go to the currency exchange and wait for over forty five minutes after their official opening time to get the 85 CUCs. Finally got checked in, went through security and bought a bottle Rum to rid myself of the worthless Cuban currency. I thought about opening the when I reached Boston. Walked aboard, America at least. Lift off, praise Jesus! I am kissing the ground when I land in Fort Lauderdale. Cuba is one screwed up country.