How can I show the World that I am not made for despair?

    France has been a time of peace and joy on this cycling journey. Of course it is a country known internationally for it's cycling delights, but in fact it has been a perfect balance between the experiences in and out of the saddle that have made it so devine.

   Crossing the Alps from Italy by the Col du Montegenevre, and then soaring over the Col du Lautauret in sub zero temperatures, over 2km above sea level, was physically euphoric. A constantly shifting sky provided a glimpse of those glorious mountains through all the seasons. In minutes the warm Southern sun would disappear behind a peak, and around the corner would blow a harsh gale bringing snow or rain. The mornings would be spent climbing, then a lunch on the Col would lead to a descent unrivalled throughout the world. Zipping down switchbacks that at times seemed determined to throw me over the edge and into the abyss of an alpine cascade, and at others, feeling like my wheels were glued to the road and I could lean into the corner at 65kmph. 

   No matter what happened throughout the course of the day, arriving at the foot of an Alpine desent makes all the world seem right.

   

   On my third day, I took on Alp D'Huez. "THE ALP" as it is affectionately known in the Lycra-clad world. I would spend hours talking about each of the 21 hairpin bends that lead to the summit, scaling 1.1km in altitude over a distance of just 14km flat, but there are numerous writings of Fausto Coppi, the Schleck brothers, or Tommy Voeckler making much more drama than I did, so I'll just sum it up by saying "It is tough and exhilarating."

   I thought my momentous moment was going to be when I screamed with joy as I arrived on the deserted summit, and lay down sweating in the snow, but in fact it was as I began the descent that I had that day's experience of a lifetime, and met the first Angel of the road, in France.

   I was into the second corner, and stopped to try and blow some heat into my hands that felt like they were coated in broken glass, when I thought to myself, "I am an idiot. Leaving all my heavy winter clothing at the campsite was a stupid idea. Reducing weight is not a priority. I am not a professional. I did not need to shave seconds off've my time. I should have brought my coat up here. This descent is going to be so shit because I can feel every muscle in my body clinging for dear life to the bones underneath. Even a bin bag to wear might just heat me up a fraction of a degree."

   A car pulled alongside. 

      A BIN BAG SHOT OUT OF THE WINDOW!

"Here, take this! I use if for MTB, but I have more. Do you need one for your face?" 

   I was close to tears, although I had to turn down the face bag. Didn't seem wise...

     This man had been strategically placed to help me. In no other minute in the existence of the human race could that interaction have happened. It is moments like this that I live for every day. I cruised down the Alp in the sunshine that I seemed to have found a revived appreciation for. Thank you Jean Paul.

    The best thing about France is that this interaction was the first of many. Leaving the life changing mountains behind I descended to Grenoble- a city that is currently a labyrinth of roadworks. In an effort to ease my passing through, I spent an hour pushing my bike up and down the footpaths of the one way traffic AND TRAMMED city centre, trying to find a tourist office. No success. I ended up deep in the heart of the city centre searching for a shop that in turn, didn't sell what I needed.
   After a sufficient amount of precious daylight had been lost, I decided I needed out of the city, and so set off vaguely North. Again another hour ebbed by as I pointlessly tried to work out a sensible bicycle route out of the city. I was just about to give over to the main road and dodge trucks for a few hours when I, rudely, called to a man standing by a bus stop,
     "Est-ce que c'est un route du velo dans le direction St. Etienne?" (horrible French effort.)
 To my amazement he called back, in a perfect London accent, "I'm English!"

   I almost fell over. Only because I'd been lost in the city, and only because I'd gone looking for stuff I wouldn't find, had I arrived here at this PRECISE moment, meeting a man I could understand entirely who; 2 minutes earlier wouldn't have been there, and 2 minutes later, would be on his bus and out of my life! Another little guide sent from another life to help me on my way. Within a few sentences I'd found the Val d'Isere cycle path and was flying along the riverbank on a sheltered, golden avenue for cyclists.
    That took me to Vinay- where a woman, surprised to see a cyclist in her little town, offered her garden as a camping site for the night. She owned a B&B but it was full, so allowed me to camp amongst the bamboo forest and relax on her hammocks in the winter sun. KIND KIND KIND.

   A few days later, after long windy days crossing both the Rhone and Loire rivers, I reached St. Just en Chevalet. The home of Alison and Andrew. Out of the goodness of their own hearts they invited me to rest up in their beautful old town house, overlooking the market square of this little mountain village. Two nights was the perscribed rest period, and boy did I rest! I slept, I read, I watched rugby, I listened, and we ate. The new piece of French vocab I'd scribble into my little blue notebook if I still studied hopelessly in Ms. Park's GCSE class would be "Gourmand". A word only the French would have, that means, "not quite greedy, just to enjoy your food." I have a lot of respect for this ideaology.
   We had wonderful homemade soups, fantastic breads, charcuterie, COFFEE, glorious cheeses, muesli, yoghurt, honey, jams, rilletes, and upon the invite of a village friend, a fantastic invention called Raclette. A warped form of a cheesy fondue. Cheesorama. A perfect meal.
   On the morning of my departure, Andrew, a cyclist himself, went to the huge effort of planning a perfect route for the day, avoiding all major roads and including a Chateau, country lanes, disused railway cycle networks, and a fantastic patisserie for our morning snack! He even decided to ride 70km with me! Inspiring. I felt so at home and at peace with these wonderful people and their wonderful cats. Thank you.

   And so after my glorious rest, I powered through 130km to reach the community of Taize, in the Bourgogne region. I planned to stay for two days, having a quick insight to life here, then making good speed north, then I met the people.
   An amazing bunch of young travellers from all over the globe coming together to discuss, laugh, think, meet and enjoy.

I STAYED FOR A WEEK.

The experience I had within that little community was a true highlight of the adventure. I will sum it up simply with the phrase "Silence, Solitude, Laughter, and Love." To go in to any more detail wouldn't do justice. An indicator of the relationships formed over those seven days may be the fact that a Californian lad will now be spending Christmas in my family's home in Belfast, and I've been staying at the home of Jean Baptiste, a truly hospitable Parisien; a guide, a host, a friend, for the past 4 days.
   The rest wil remain unsaid. We can talk about it another time. It was amazing.
    An emerging thought developed with the help of words from Brother Roger, the founder of the community is "How can I show that I am not made for despair?" A great question I now pose to myself every day.

   My road to Paris was a long and magical one. As I rode North, eating and drinking my way through wine country made mystical by the heavy fog, I  slept in forests and had birds of prey as alarm clocks. Cockerels have nothing on the abilities of huge buzzards at wake up calls.
   I followed the Yonne river all the way up to its convergence with the Seine. I love rivers. The provide so much safety and trust. It allowed me to switch off from navigation and just cruise along the bank, knowing that it knew the way. Covering 160km in a day was a new record. Doing distances like this allows me to eat what ever I want. Most of which is chocolate and bread. Traditional baguettes and local pain au chocolat have replaced lion bars and pasta as my staple foods!

   Arriving in the stunning Chateau town of Fontainebleu I was mesmorised by the amount of leaves dancing in the strong wind. Proper dancing. They actually were blowing into different shapes and seemed to be choreographed by some strange natural dance lord. I decided it was time for a celebratory beer as I was now on the doorstep of Paris, about to roll in to complete what I'd been thinking of as the third leg of my journey. What a great idea. I had a short conversation with the bar tender, a great man called Liliane; and within minutes I had his house keys in my pocket and was rolling to ANOTHER free bed! It was so nice to shower and then, having eaten a great meal cooked in a proper kitchen instead of my increasingly toxic trangia stove, return to a bar to play pool and chat the night away.

   Paris just upped the game. Jean Baptiste. What can I say? The man is just an incredible host! After taking the ceremonial photograph of myself by the Eiffel tower and grabbing some food we met at his glorious central Parisien apartment and had a well deserved chill out evening. While he went to work the next day, I explored the city. Notre Dame, Latin Quarter, Saint Michel, Opera, Arc du Triomphe, ITS ALL REAL! Riding up the Champs Elysees in the early evening as it filled with traffic and people visited the Christmas market set up along the side was a ride to remember. The magic of Paris flooded over me and I slowed right down just soaking everything in.
    Having lunch with an old friend from Sweden proved to be a great idea. Rotissere chicken and spuds lined the stomach for some afternoon beverages accompanied by great conversation, before I headed down to Centre St. Georges Pompidou to catch Pierre Bensusan play the most enchanting guitar I've ever heard, in a tiny little underground theatre! How funny that it was my old friend Nathan, that I actually sat beside in French class SEVEN YEARS ago that is now Pierre's road manager- now we're both in Paris and trying desperately to remember all the things the poor Miss Park tried to teach us! We should have listened. My most vivid memory of that class was the day a dog followed me all the way up the Jackson building starcase, down the hall way, and in to the class room, WITH NO COAXING FROM ME AT ALL....
   Jean Baptiste and I then did some socialising in Pigalle, eating Bolognaise Crepes at 4am, before walking through a delightful Paris by moonlight. The climax to my time here ad to come when JB invited me along to the annual wine salon of Paris; an enormous wholesale of wines from all over the country and the possibility to taste every last one of them! JB's friend, Francios, accompanied us with his vin catalogue and guided us in the direction of some of the finest glasses I've ever tasted. There was quite a lot of tasting done.... Although I promise I wasn't as drunk as I look in the photograph at the bottom of this page. Promise.
   From there we had a dinner with his friends in an apartment overlooking Hotel de Ville, Notre Dame AND the Eiffel tower! IT was very cool. Charcuterie, cheese and more wine completed an altogether very French event before heading again to Saint Michel to "let off some steam." Fantastic fun.

    And so France is almost at an end. Tomorrow I will try my very best to follow the Avenue Verte; the new cycle route linking London to Paris, out towards the coast at Dieppe. From there I'll cross to Brighton, then over towards Bristol, up the Welsh borders area to Liverpool, then to Carlisle, turn West to Newcastle following Hadrian's wall- the end of my Roman journey, then up in to bonny Scotland, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Oban, over the Irish Sea to Ballycastle, and finally down to Belfast!

   France has been a whole adventure in itself. I could write for days on each of the individual encounters. I am very glad for the thoughts shared at Taize in particular; because it is due to them that ever since, I have asked myself the question "How can I show the world that I am not made for despair?"
   The answer normally allows me to realise that we are not supposed to just survive each day, but we are supposed to thrive each day on earth.

   See you soon Britain. I am very excited to cycle through those pastures green.

Taking it easy after the Alps.

Chateau with Andrew.

Taize.

Maybe 1000km to home?

The dancing forests of Fontainebleu.

A European cyclist's photograph.

Notre Dame by night.

Triomphe!

Wine salon... I suppose I was a little pissed...

For when it gets cold and tough.

Newsflash.

JUST DID ALP D'HUEZ.

Unbelievable. No time to write, Tourist office is closing and access to a computer disappears.

HERE'S A PHOTO!

What happened to Italy?

   A lack of writing activity can mean one of two things; boring events not worth logging, or a period jam packed with an assortment of goings on leaving no time to sit in front of a computer. I can assure you the last two weeks have been the latter.

  Where to begin? Rome was just fantastic. My Mother and I had a great time relaxing and walking, and it was actually refreshing not to think about the bike for a few days. The only bothersome moment during my time in the eternal city was when I stood in St. Peter's Basilica and thought to myself,

"Would Peter want this?"

But this is a discussion we can have in person some day, otherwise I'll just be spouting viewpoints all over the place.

   Anyway, Mum left, and as her taxi pulled away from our bargain of a four star hotel, I felt a genuine pang of fear and loneliness. Fifteen minutes before we'd been drinking complimentary coffees by a swimming pool, high on Garibaldi hill, and all of a sudden my thoughts had to swith from leisure to logistics. I was solo once more.

   I set off North the following morning. After 20km in Rome city centre, I finally found my way out. With my recently delivered iPod, fresh undies, and plenty of surplus carbs and fats hanging around, I powered my way through the quagmire of suburban Rome to Viterbo and on to Montefiascone. It was a big day with some serious hills and so, in the failing light, I arrived at lake Bolsena. I found an agritourism on the lakeshore that seemed deserted, so I clambered over the fence and set up camp under an olive tree.
   A few hours into the night I heard the terrifying thud of a car door being closed right next to my tent. I sat bolt upright and scrambled into the moonlight to either fight for my life, or; charm the arrivals and agree some fee whilst apologising profusely. It turned out to be a holidaying German family, who were more than happy for me to stay, and then after a great night's sleep, had me over for breakfast! Such kind people.
   Having eaten my fill they suggested a bicycle path that would follow the lakeshore, then climb to Bolsena town, saving me 10km of uphill backtracking. I set off and must have immediately taken a wrong turn... I did find my way to the town, but not before climbing three fences and dragging the bike up a road so rough that I was on my hands and knees. I was sure I was going to be sick as I reached the heavenly tarmac.

   Upon reaching the smooth, signposted SS2, the next two days were spent cruising through the romantic novel-esque landscapes of Tuscany. Forever rolling waves of hills, either freshly ploughed or covered in enormous vineyards that oozed beautiful winey odours. I don't mean post binge session wino odours either- I was passing the town of Montepulciano, and the famous Chianti region!

   Everything was going so well, and I was on target to reach Florence on that third afternoon, when, 10km from the city, I heard a noise come from my back wheel that makes the stomach of every touring cyclist feel like it is about to fall out of their belly button. I looked between my legs and saw the damage- the bolt holding my pannier rack had snapped clean in half, with half still stuck in the bicycle. This was a major problem. With all my weight on the back it was impossible to carry on. The rack was twisting badly and rubbing on the wheel. Nightmare.
   After five minutes of thinking the worst, I made the risky decision to ditch the rack and bags (MY WHOLE LIFE), stashing them in a bush by the roadside, and race on unburdened to the camping at Piazza Michaelangelo, returning in a taxi to collect them.
   During those 45 minutes I thought of all possible scenarios. I knew the remainder of the bolt stuck in the frame was a major problem- Would I have to ditch the bike and find a new mode of transport? Would someone have found and stolen my belongings in the bush?
 What was I to do?

   In the end, I got everything to the camping and the bike to a mechanic. He took one look at the damaged bolt, let out a huge sigh, picked up a drill and hack saw, and said,

"You have big problem. Come back tomorrow."

   I was nervous. So I did what all nervous Irishmen would do, when they're nervous in Italy. I bought a nice bottle of Chianti. I knew drinking alone in my tent would only darken the situation, so instead I ingeniously disguised the alcohol in a paper bag and took to walking the spectacular city in the warm moonlight!
   After some great conversation over Apertivo in a little trattoria, I wound my way past the Duomo with its enormous dome, down to the Uffizi gallery and the little Piazza next to it, where a street musician was playing acoustic reggae covers of pop ballads. A perfect mash-up of genres for a drunken 21 year old.
   Surrounded by perfect sculptures of Greek mythology, and in the eyeline of Michaelangelo's "David", I sat and had a little cry to myself.
   It felt great, and by the time the musician had finished two songs I felt purged of all nerves and had washed away the fear. Key sera sera I thought. This is all part of the big adventure.

   The following afternoon, through the haze of a hangover, I returned to the mechanic, who presented my bicycle repqired, qnd with enhanced fittings! I paid the man and went for a spin along the river, almost falling off twice while catching the eye of some beautiful passer by. Florentine girls are where its at. I decided to set off the following morning, so went to Piazza Michaelangeo and sat in the sunset reading and snacking on delicious, salty, olive oil soaked foccacia bread.

   The road from Florence to Bologna is quite simply a road that was made to be ridden on a bicycle. Just over 100km long; ascending straight out of old Florence in to more vineyards for about 40km, then undulating for 20km between two passes, then descending for around 45/50km to Bologna.
   In the cool sunshine my spirits remained high all day. It felt great to be on the road again after my little hiccup- but the real inspiration came in a cafe atop the passo di futa when, after ordering a lunchitme espresso, I turned to find myself in the shadow of a wall covered in photographs from as far back as the 1950s,showing cycling royalty such as Jaques Anquetil, Nino Defillipis, and Fautso Coppi zooming past that very spot in numerous Giro d'Italia and a few Tour de France!
   On the descent I met two South Koreans, who didn't know each other, but camped at the same site in Bologna, were both in their 20's, and were both going to Madrid! Its amazing what a trip can do. They said they were now good friends, gave me some sweets, then we parted to the road once more.

   From Bologna I entered the pancake gradients of the Po valley and surrounding plains. I made good time to Ferrara where I met Coach Cate- an American lady cycling from London to Athens doing some research on the healthy living styles of the Europeans. We shared ingredients to prepare a great dinner, and shared thoughts to make a great night time conversation.

   From Ferrara I took the Po cycle path, all the way along the levee of the great river, to Verona. Torrential rain and heavy fog finished the day and so I checked into a hostel with a grand open fire and complimentary cat!
   A day off to dry out seemed a wise idea, so after exploring Verona, gazing up at Juliet's balcony, and getting a damaged crank replaced for €50, I met Julien; a French wine trader travelling Europe.
   We teamed up with Anna, a local girl he'd met that day, and a bottle of Grappa, and wandered all over town. It was great fun- catching a Mexican Apertivo along the way and finishing up on the ancient Roman bridge under the stars, that were visible for the first time in days. This night time clear sky let the temperature drop, so when the rain returned the following morning, it was sharp and freezing and blowing straight into my face as I battled to reach Vincenza.
   A day of total misery convinced me to stop at a shop and pick up decent waterproofs and serious boots, so as I finally rolled into Venice 24 hours later on a crisp sunny afternoon, I looked more like a polyester Yeti than a trim cyclist.

Venice! I had arrive at the magical city on the sea, and, two hours later, so did my best mate Pat! He and some fellow students had come to study architecture for a week, and they'd managed to get an amazing deal on an MTV Cribs worthy apartment. Under the cover of BROAD DAYLIGHT, we hauled the bike across too many bridges and I moved in to sleep on their floor for three nights.
   Venice really deserves a chapter to itself. We had our own kitchen, so each evening we cooked 5* meals for cheap. I spent the days  relaxing, wandering along countless canals, getting lost and eating a mountain of Gelato while the others studied at the Biennale.
    On the second night, Venice experienced the worst flooding in 22 years! 1.5m of wqter spilled on to St. Mark's Square, brought to our attention by the eerie, pan pipe warning siren that wouldn't be out of place in Doctor Who.
   Julien from Verona joined us, and we continued our cheap, yet incredibly glamourous way of life for a few more days. Just like Rome it was so good to switch off from survival, and adventure in a much more luxurious manner. Strolling pqst the house of Marco Polo, drinking varieties of coffee, eating all sorts of foreign food and sampling wine and beer by the bottle are all great adventure in Venice. It was tough to leave.

   To save myself the boring repetition of cycling back along roads I'd taken East to Venice, I took a train West to Torino, catching a glimpse of lake Garda,through the trees, and picking up some fine mixed nuts at a stop over in Milano- leading me to the doorstep of the Alps.
   If Torino is the doorstep, then the Val de Susa is the driveway. A great slice of relatively flat valley floor that puches right into the heart of possibly the most spectacular moutain range on Earth. Towering, snow capped peaks lined the road all the way to Susa, then the roqd switched back on itself and began to gain altitude very quickly.
   In minutes my flat valley ride was over and I was surrounded by a panorama of golden forest, snowy peaks, and some of the finesrt cycling world over.

   Two hours of tough ascending took me to the town of Salbertrand, already 1000m above sea level. Upon arrival I was immediately invited to a session of roasting chestnuts and drinking hot wine with the local community, and through that, picked up an invite to dinner in a caravan! It was such a great day. My heart was so warmed by the generosity of the human spirit here, that it took some time for me to notice the piles of snow lying around! Winter has arrived.
   After a great sleep I climbed to an Aaron Gordon record height of 1860m on the Col de Montegenevre, and entered France! A freezing fog was blowing  through the ski station, so I hastily layered up and descended through the snow along an amazing Alpine Tour route, passing  road paintings such as "Allez Tommy Voeckler!" into the picturesque town of Briançon; from which I write this entry.

   A storm has blown in which I hope passes by before the morning, as I will reach a new record altitude crossing the Col du Lautauret at 2058m, before descending to Le Bourg D'Oisans at the foot of the mighty Alp D'Huez! A little test of fitness amongst my 8 hours riding per day.

   Italy really was fantastic. The highs of cycling along routes of bicycle folklore, and the comforts of Rome and Venice, balanced with the stresses of brutal weather, mechanical troubles and internal dilemmas, combined to make a thoroughly worthwhile section of this adventure.
   I have loved every second, high or low, in altitude or in spirit. Now to soak up the Alps before crossing the great expanse of France.

   It's funny- life on the road now seems so normal. Maybe it was the supernatural Alpine scenery I find myself in, but today all I could think about was today. I wasn't concerned with the future for the first time in ages. The more I think about it, I've been slipping into this frame of mind over the past two months.
  It feels great.

The only time is now. Enjoy it.