Friends: The Japanese film "Bashing," one of 21 in Competition for the Palm d'Or, the festival's ultimate prize, opens most promisingly with a young woman speeding into the camera on a mountain bike down a quiet urban side street. She swings past the camera and in the next cut swiftly dismounts, puts down her kickstand and rushes up two flights of stairs to her apartment.
If she had locked her bike, I would have felt in safe hands with a director telling things as they are, but rarely in cinema does anyone lock their bike. It takes time and breaks the rhythm. They are motion pictures, after all, and directors like motion, thus their inclusion of bike riding and wind shield wipers and passing trains and such. Time wasn't an issue in this film, as it had a tidy running time of 82 minutes. But, this director somewhat acquits himself, as we frequently see this 25-year old woman riding about her small seaside city to her job, to shop and to relax and never does she lock her bike, nor does she seem to need to. Maybe locking one's bike, even overnight outside one's apartment, is unnecessary where she lives. It added to my eagerness to bicycle Japan, but not the way this young woman was treated by the people in her city. She is a recently released hostage from some unnamed Middle Eastern country where she had been doing volunteer work. Rather than being celebrated for her idealism and her ordeal, she is ostracized and tormented, thus the title "Bashing." Her father too is ostracized, forced to resign from his job, turning him suicidal. The film is based on a true story.
This was one of a trio of Asian films all with minimal dialogue and also minimal appeal to any but film festival audiences and the most ardent of cinephiles--art films that would test the patience of most. The others were "Be With Me," a Singaporean film that opened the Director's Fortnight and the South Korean film, "The Bow," the 12th film by cult director Ki-Duk Kim, he of "The Isle" and "Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, Spring."
"Be With Me" was a tedious and disjointed portrayal of various lonely and love-seeking souls
interspersed with arty shots of skyscrapers and kitchen ware and other scenes fit for a painter's
brush. Much of the dialogue is text messages sent via e-mail or phone or typed out on an old-fashioned typewriter with off-center keys.
Ki-Duk Kim films range from the audacious to the tender. "The Bow" had a little of each. It is the story of a 60-year old fisherman who has lived on a boat for years with a girl he rescued when she was six years old and is about to turn 17, when he intends to marry her. All of a sudden she starts having feelings for the various clients who come to their boat to fish. The 60-year old puts a halt to all their advances by firing arrows near them. He also tells fortunes by firing three arrows past the young woman into a target as she goes back and forth on a swing. Ki-Duk Kim's admirers won't be disappointed by his latest imaginative concoction.
I started my day off with an 8:30 a.m. screening of last night's Opening Night film "Lemming." Expectations were high for it, since it stars Laurent Lucas and is directed by Dominick Moll, who last teamed up in the much acclaimed "With a Friend Like Harry." It also stars Charlotte Rampling, who never disappoints. It is slick and full of snappy dialogue, electronic gadgetry and surprising twists. It is a rare Opening Night film that is also in Competition. London bookies peg it as the favorite to win the Palm d'Or. Its first hour is exhilarating film-making, enough to leave me feeling satisfied, though many regret its detour into the surreal.
I also saw "Kilometer 0", a Kurdish-Iraqi film, before I began my slide into Asian minimalism. This film dwelt on the hatred between Kurds and Arabs. A Kurdish soldier is stuck with an Arab driver for a several day trip returning a corpse in a casket to its family. It is lashed to the top of their car and draped with an Iraqi flag. It is quite an image, and even more so when they become a parade of several dozen such vehicles through the desert. This Competition film won't win any awards, but at least it gave a picture of life in Iraq.
My day was highlighted when I encountered Helen, Chicago's Film Festival programmer, after the ten p.m. screening of "The Bow," which she also liked. She missed Cannes last year, as she was six months pregnant. She's back this year with nine month old Zoe and her husband, who is accompanying her for the first time. He has child-care duties while Helen searches for films for Chicago.
Several market films I'll miss today and their one-sentence description in "Screen" magazine: "Like Chef, Like God"--A man constantly changes jobs and discovers a talent for cooking..."The Big Empty"--A bittersweet tale of Alice, her vagina and the infinite nature of the tundra..."The American"--A French man believes he was born in the wrong country and decides to become an American.
Later, George
Friday, May 13, 2005
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Day 1
Friends: While those willing to attire themselves formally were at the Opening Night film in the Palais for the French film "Lemming" about a rodent that clogs a sink pipe triggering a dizzying series of events, I and about a dozen others were watching a Norwegian film on surfing in a nearby 50-seat market screening room. Our theater should have been packed, as "Lemming" opened commercially the next day all over France, and how often does a film about surfing in Norway come along. It was most certainly a movie that had to be seen.
Not only do the Norwegians surf their rugged coastline, but they have competitions and guys try to win the hearts of women by taking up surfing, or at least as portrayed in "Monsterthursday," Arild Ommundson's second film.
The suitor and would-be surfer is a 30-year old who is in love with his best friend's wife and is looking after her while her husband is off on a prolonged business trip to Singapore. The husband is a champion surfer, so his friend decides to take up surfing while he's away. He struggles, testing the patience of his zen-like mentor, but eventually he's surfing monster waves.
Even though this was a market screening, which often means less than competent film-making, as the backers of such films have paid big bucks for their films to be screened here, in contrast to the 100 or so invited films in the four official categories, this film was an exception. From the very start the cinematography of the stark and beautiful Norwegian country-side indicated those making this film knew how to make a movie. One can often tell from the very first shot of a market screening.
There was loads to like about this film. They golf as well as surf in Norway. Whenever the surfer and a friend drive pass the local golf course they like to shout at those on the putting green, "Get back to reality," easily the best line of the festival so far.
It doesn't have much competition, as I only managed three films on Day 1 as there were no morning screenings and my final film of the evening was canceled as the projectionist couldn't sync the sound. That will change today, with screenings commencing at 8:30 a.m.
Other than "Lemming," all that was on offer on Day 1 were a handful of market screenings, just enough to whet out appetites.
There wasn't much to choose from. The closest film I could find to something bicycle-related was "The Longest Penalty in the World," a Spanish film about soccer. The credits were clever with the names of the cast batting around a ball, but after that the movie was a barrage of cliched caricatures and not much soccer.
My other movie, "Josh Jarman," from Australia, wasn't much better. Josh is a young playwright whose work only plays in small theaters seating no more than a couple dozen, but then he gets a break when a big-time producer is willing to put on his latest work if he'll be a boy-friend to his daughter, a wild woman who has had a series of disastrous boy friends. He agrees, but as the play is rehearsed it is greatly transformed from the original, compromising Josh's integrity and vision. Josh was as much of a cliched buffoon as the characters in "The Longest Penalty," pretty much standard fare for a market screening. But one never knows and has to take chances. At least I was rewarded by "Monsterthursday."
Later, George
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Cannes, France
Friends: Last year I made my approach to Cannes from the west across the relative flats of Provence. This year I descended from the north following the Route de Napoleon, the road Napoleon took in 1815, though in the opposite direction, from Cannes to Grenoble to overthrow Louis the 18th.
The terrain was mountainous the final 150 miles all the way to the Mediterranean. My map listed one last pass about 65 miles from Cannes. When I surmounted it last night shortly before seven I thought my climbing was done and it would be gentle going the rest of the way. But after a three-mile descent into another of those classic French villages with an ancient castle towering above it, I began a two-mile climb, followed by a similar descent and then another climb.
Rather than persisting at it until I overheated into another sweat, I elected to end my day just short of 90 miles, leaving me less than 50 miles to my movie marathon of the next two weeks. And then today, I had a final series of mini-passes until I came to the city of Grasse, perfume capital of France and big enough to have a McDonald's and wealthy enough to be dotted with hoards of villas for those who want a break from the heat of the coast 15 miles away.
I've had some sunny skies and warmer temperatures the last two days after five days of chill and overcast and occasional rain. Rather than basking in the sun, I've sought patches of shade when I've taken a break to eat or rest or study the map. For years a patch of shade has always brought Crissy and our ride through Central America to mind. It was beastly hot down there deep in the tropics and shade was rare and most welcome. Women in the countryside walked around under umbrellas to shield themselves from the fierce sun.
When we stopped to rest, I immediately ducked into the shade, but not Crissy. She preferred to remain in the sun, darkening her already deep tan. She didn't want to relinquish her title of having the best tan on the beach when we returned to Puerto Escondido. Sometimes she'd squeeze a lemon on her hair to bleach it a little more. I'd have to insist on her joining me in the shade so she wouldn't wilt away and have the strength to keep riding.
But my strongest memory of that trip is the image of Crissy with her nose on her handlebars curled into the aerodynamic egg position so she could speed even faster down the descents, faster than even I could keep up with even though I was carrying all our gear. My favorite picture of Crissy is one of her astride her bike overlooking Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, named "The most beautiful lake in the world," by Aldous Huxley. It was among a gallery of photos of her life that her friend Anne Rawlins had put together on a bulletin board in her hospital room. When a visitor commented on the photo, I pointed out that even though Crissy was smiling, she'd just had one of the most horrific experiences of her life, climbing the long, steep, ungraded road to get there, maybe even worse than chemotherapy. That prompted a chuckle from Crissy, one of the last few she had as she lay there in the hospital.
Crissy loved the beach and the water. She could body surf with ease. I'll be imagining her sprawled on the series of beaches I will bike past every day from the camp ground I am staying at three-and-a-half miles west of the Festival. I am ready for the movies to commence. I picked up my credentials this afternoon. They will allow me free access to the hundreds of movies to be screened in the next 12 days. The only ones I will need a ticket to are those playing in the Palais, the largest of the 50 theaters screening movies all day long. And those credentials give me free Internet access at the festival business center, where I'm at now. There are only twenty terminals, however, for the over 30,000 film professionals that will be gathering. Fortunately there are other free outlets provided by businesses and organizations trying to attract favor from all of us attending.
A quick scan of the schedule shows films by many of my favorite directors, including the Spaniard Benito Zambrano. His first film, "Solas," won the audience favorite award at Chicago's film festival in 1999. I had seen it at the Berlin Film Festival and campaigned hard for it to be included in Chicago's Festival. I have been looking forward to his next film ever since. All that he has directed these past six years has been a TV mini-series. His film here is "Habana Blues," set in Cuba. I have once again promised regular reports for my friend Matt to post on his cinema-related web-site http://rashomon.blogspot.com so brace yourself.
Later, George
The terrain was mountainous the final 150 miles all the way to the Mediterranean. My map listed one last pass about 65 miles from Cannes. When I surmounted it last night shortly before seven I thought my climbing was done and it would be gentle going the rest of the way. But after a three-mile descent into another of those classic French villages with an ancient castle towering above it, I began a two-mile climb, followed by a similar descent and then another climb.
Rather than persisting at it until I overheated into another sweat, I elected to end my day just short of 90 miles, leaving me less than 50 miles to my movie marathon of the next two weeks. And then today, I had a final series of mini-passes until I came to the city of Grasse, perfume capital of France and big enough to have a McDonald's and wealthy enough to be dotted with hoards of villas for those who want a break from the heat of the coast 15 miles away.
I've had some sunny skies and warmer temperatures the last two days after five days of chill and overcast and occasional rain. Rather than basking in the sun, I've sought patches of shade when I've taken a break to eat or rest or study the map. For years a patch of shade has always brought Crissy and our ride through Central America to mind. It was beastly hot down there deep in the tropics and shade was rare and most welcome. Women in the countryside walked around under umbrellas to shield themselves from the fierce sun.
When we stopped to rest, I immediately ducked into the shade, but not Crissy. She preferred to remain in the sun, darkening her already deep tan. She didn't want to relinquish her title of having the best tan on the beach when we returned to Puerto Escondido. Sometimes she'd squeeze a lemon on her hair to bleach it a little more. I'd have to insist on her joining me in the shade so she wouldn't wilt away and have the strength to keep riding.
But my strongest memory of that trip is the image of Crissy with her nose on her handlebars curled into the aerodynamic egg position so she could speed even faster down the descents, faster than even I could keep up with even though I was carrying all our gear. My favorite picture of Crissy is one of her astride her bike overlooking Lake Atitlan in Guatemala, named "The most beautiful lake in the world," by Aldous Huxley. It was among a gallery of photos of her life that her friend Anne Rawlins had put together on a bulletin board in her hospital room. When a visitor commented on the photo, I pointed out that even though Crissy was smiling, she'd just had one of the most horrific experiences of her life, climbing the long, steep, ungraded road to get there, maybe even worse than chemotherapy. That prompted a chuckle from Crissy, one of the last few she had as she lay there in the hospital.
Crissy loved the beach and the water. She could body surf with ease. I'll be imagining her sprawled on the series of beaches I will bike past every day from the camp ground I am staying at three-and-a-half miles west of the Festival. I am ready for the movies to commence. I picked up my credentials this afternoon. They will allow me free access to the hundreds of movies to be screened in the next 12 days. The only ones I will need a ticket to are those playing in the Palais, the largest of the 50 theaters screening movies all day long. And those credentials give me free Internet access at the festival business center, where I'm at now. There are only twenty terminals, however, for the over 30,000 film professionals that will be gathering. Fortunately there are other free outlets provided by businesses and organizations trying to attract favor from all of us attending.
A quick scan of the schedule shows films by many of my favorite directors, including the Spaniard Benito Zambrano. His first film, "Solas," won the audience favorite award at Chicago's film festival in 1999. I had seen it at the Berlin Film Festival and campaigned hard for it to be included in Chicago's Festival. I have been looking forward to his next film ever since. All that he has directed these past six years has been a TV mini-series. His film here is "Habana Blues," set in Cuba. I have once again promised regular reports for my friend Matt to post on his cinema-related web-site http://rashomon.blogspot.com so brace yourself.
Later, George
Monday, May 9, 2005
Laragne-Monteglin, France
Friends: The media may wish to portray the French as being anti-American, but I continually see evidence to the contrary. McDonald's are in abundance. Billboards on buses and throughout towns of any size advertise American movies. Supermarkets frequently serenade shoppers with American pop songs to put them in a good mood to spend more money. Today I heard "Everlasting Love," which I can't get out of my head. Crissy continues to dominate my thought, alternating between remembering her triumphs and tragedies. I still have ample breaks to revel in the usual pleasures of traveling by bike, as well as anticipating the imminent pleasure of Cannes and all else that awaits me down the road, but so far, after a week here in France, this is the Tour de Crissy.
I feared thoughts of her might be a disastrous distraction. When I set out on this trip a week ago biking the fourteen miles from my apartment to Chicago's airport, a route straight out Montrose that I've ridden numerous times, I somehow managed to go astray and suddenly found myself two miles off course. I had had a ten minute blackout. I was expecting the spirit of Crissy to be looking after me. It was no catastrophe, fortunately, and I could laugh, remembering the mischievous Crissy. I was further concerned about my fortunes, when, as I unloaded my bike and starting stuffing my panniers into a duffel bag at the airport, I discovered my emergency rations, a can of ravioli, had burst. Losing the food wasn't of great concern, but cleaning the mess was.
Fearing that bad luck comes in threes, I felt doomed as I approached the check-in counter with my bike. There is always the possibility that the person at the check-in counter will regard my bike with a look of alarm and refuse it or make excessive demands before accepting it. I'd removed the pedals, turned the handlebars and dropped the seat post, the usual requirements when flying British Air. Hopefully that was still their policy and it hadn't changed since I last checked the day before. My streak of ill fortune came to a screeching halt. The attendant warmly greeted me and asked if I'd like them to take the bike as is or put it in a bag. Never have I been received so cordially and casually. What a relief.
And henceforth all has been well. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport outside Paris at 1:30 in the afternoon and was pedaling by three. I verified that my wild campsite along the perimeter of the airport I used last August was intact. The worn-out tire I had left dangling from a tree limb to mark my spot was still there. It will be my final campsite once again in August before I fly out. I by-passed Paris, skirting around its eastern edge, hardly having to suffer its sprawl of 12 million people, one-fifth the country's population.
I put in 40 miles before stopping to camp in a pleasant wooded area. I was zonked out within moments. After a solid twelve hours of sleep I was back on the bike by 7:30 the next morning, eager to make a dent in the 600 miles that lay between me and Cannes before the movies start in a week. I quit riding at eight that night after a hearty 107 miles, happy to have defeated jet-lag once again. But my minimal sleep on the flight over finally caught up to me, as I didn't awake until ten a.m. the next morning, somewhat lulled by the pitter-patter of rain.
I still had ample energy for 80 miles, a somewhat recovery day. Yesterday, Sunday, a day when nearly all mercantile interests take the day off in France and there are virtually no stores or restaurants open, all I had to do was bike, enabling me to lop off another 100 miles, leaving me less than 150 miles to Cannes. The lighter traffic of Sundays, especially in the morning, always make it an extra fine day to be on the bicycle. It is a day, too, when I am more liable to see others out on their bikes, always a welcome site. These extra benefits compensate for the slight hassle of the lack of open grocery stores and the challenge of finding a bar or restaurant open during The Tour when I'm not at the finish line and need to watch its conclusion on a television.
Some of my strongest memories from last year are of the great triumph of finally finding a place with a television, once just minutes before the conclusion of the stage. I almost felt as if I had won the stage I was so thrilled. Last year I followed the Loire River for a spell on my way to Cannes, when I detoured west out of Paris to visit Florence and Rachid in Tours. This year I kept company with the mighty Rhone River for about 100 miles after meeting up with it in Lyon. The Rhone led me to the ever majestic Alps.
The first significant climb took me over the Col de Cabre, a six-mile ascent to 4,000 feet. It doesn't rank among the legends, but it was an extra test on my legs coming towards the end of the day after I had already biked 94 miles. It felt like one of The Tour's mountain-top stage finishes. Concluding a stage at the top of a mountain was something Tour organizers felt was too much to inflict on the racers in the first few decades of the race. It wasn't until 1952, nearly 50 years after the first edition, that the racers had to endure their first mountain-top finish. It happened at L'Alpe d'Huez. The Italian great Fausto Coppi won the stage.
Its hard not to think of the exploits of The Tour riders when climbing. The image of their valiant efforts are deeply embedded in my consciousness from seeing them on television and in magazines and, after last year, in person. Lance and Jan and Hinault and Merckx and Anquetil and Pantani were all with me as I climbed the Col de Cabre. It felt assuring to have them along. Knowing I could summon their wheels to ride behind was reason enough to welcome an extended hard climb. Having all the fabulous panoramic views to gaze upon was another.
I was lucky to have found a bar that offered sandwiches a bit before the climb. I was down to an 840 gram can of ravioli for dinner, though I did have plenty of Crissy's nuts and half a dozen energy bars, if need be. As I climbed, I also looked forward to my descent. It would be an exhilarating end to the day. Nice as it would have been to camp up high, I needed to descend, as it would be below freezing up there after dark.
I am making good time, so I shall arrive in Cannes well before the movies start on Wednesday, giving me ample time to fully orient myself and to begin sifting through the over 1,000 movies on offer.
Later, George
I feared thoughts of her might be a disastrous distraction. When I set out on this trip a week ago biking the fourteen miles from my apartment to Chicago's airport, a route straight out Montrose that I've ridden numerous times, I somehow managed to go astray and suddenly found myself two miles off course. I had had a ten minute blackout. I was expecting the spirit of Crissy to be looking after me. It was no catastrophe, fortunately, and I could laugh, remembering the mischievous Crissy. I was further concerned about my fortunes, when, as I unloaded my bike and starting stuffing my panniers into a duffel bag at the airport, I discovered my emergency rations, a can of ravioli, had burst. Losing the food wasn't of great concern, but cleaning the mess was.
Fearing that bad luck comes in threes, I felt doomed as I approached the check-in counter with my bike. There is always the possibility that the person at the check-in counter will regard my bike with a look of alarm and refuse it or make excessive demands before accepting it. I'd removed the pedals, turned the handlebars and dropped the seat post, the usual requirements when flying British Air. Hopefully that was still their policy and it hadn't changed since I last checked the day before. My streak of ill fortune came to a screeching halt. The attendant warmly greeted me and asked if I'd like them to take the bike as is or put it in a bag. Never have I been received so cordially and casually. What a relief.
And henceforth all has been well. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport outside Paris at 1:30 in the afternoon and was pedaling by three. I verified that my wild campsite along the perimeter of the airport I used last August was intact. The worn-out tire I had left dangling from a tree limb to mark my spot was still there. It will be my final campsite once again in August before I fly out. I by-passed Paris, skirting around its eastern edge, hardly having to suffer its sprawl of 12 million people, one-fifth the country's population.
I put in 40 miles before stopping to camp in a pleasant wooded area. I was zonked out within moments. After a solid twelve hours of sleep I was back on the bike by 7:30 the next morning, eager to make a dent in the 600 miles that lay between me and Cannes before the movies start in a week. I quit riding at eight that night after a hearty 107 miles, happy to have defeated jet-lag once again. But my minimal sleep on the flight over finally caught up to me, as I didn't awake until ten a.m. the next morning, somewhat lulled by the pitter-patter of rain.
I still had ample energy for 80 miles, a somewhat recovery day. Yesterday, Sunday, a day when nearly all mercantile interests take the day off in France and there are virtually no stores or restaurants open, all I had to do was bike, enabling me to lop off another 100 miles, leaving me less than 150 miles to Cannes. The lighter traffic of Sundays, especially in the morning, always make it an extra fine day to be on the bicycle. It is a day, too, when I am more liable to see others out on their bikes, always a welcome site. These extra benefits compensate for the slight hassle of the lack of open grocery stores and the challenge of finding a bar or restaurant open during The Tour when I'm not at the finish line and need to watch its conclusion on a television.
Some of my strongest memories from last year are of the great triumph of finally finding a place with a television, once just minutes before the conclusion of the stage. I almost felt as if I had won the stage I was so thrilled. Last year I followed the Loire River for a spell on my way to Cannes, when I detoured west out of Paris to visit Florence and Rachid in Tours. This year I kept company with the mighty Rhone River for about 100 miles after meeting up with it in Lyon. The Rhone led me to the ever majestic Alps.
The first significant climb took me over the Col de Cabre, a six-mile ascent to 4,000 feet. It doesn't rank among the legends, but it was an extra test on my legs coming towards the end of the day after I had already biked 94 miles. It felt like one of The Tour's mountain-top stage finishes. Concluding a stage at the top of a mountain was something Tour organizers felt was too much to inflict on the racers in the first few decades of the race. It wasn't until 1952, nearly 50 years after the first edition, that the racers had to endure their first mountain-top finish. It happened at L'Alpe d'Huez. The Italian great Fausto Coppi won the stage.
Its hard not to think of the exploits of The Tour riders when climbing. The image of their valiant efforts are deeply embedded in my consciousness from seeing them on television and in magazines and, after last year, in person. Lance and Jan and Hinault and Merckx and Anquetil and Pantani were all with me as I climbed the Col de Cabre. It felt assuring to have them along. Knowing I could summon their wheels to ride behind was reason enough to welcome an extended hard climb. Having all the fabulous panoramic views to gaze upon was another.
I was lucky to have found a bar that offered sandwiches a bit before the climb. I was down to an 840 gram can of ravioli for dinner, though I did have plenty of Crissy's nuts and half a dozen energy bars, if need be. As I climbed, I also looked forward to my descent. It would be an exhilarating end to the day. Nice as it would have been to camp up high, I needed to descend, as it would be below freezing up there after dark.
I am making good time, so I shall arrive in Cannes well before the movies start on Wednesday, giving me ample time to fully orient myself and to begin sifting through the over 1,000 movies on offer.
Later, George
Saturday, May 7, 2005
Lyon, France
Friends: France remains as I left it nine months ago after last year's Tour de France, bicycling as I'd order it--little traffic on narrow roads through varied, pastoral countryside and small towns without a neon sign or chain business. And when I wish to camp, there is always a clump of trees or secluded field just a snap of the fingers away to disappear into. I've come over 300 miles since arriving in Paris Tuesday afternoon to Lyons, the second largest metropolitan area in France with two million people.
Its not the cycling so much, however, that has drawn me back, but rather The Cycling--The Tour. Like so many of the people I met following The Tour de France last year, who return year after year, I too must do it again, especially since it will be Lance's curtain call. The race doesn't start for two months. I came early, once again, for that Tour de France of film festivals, Cannes, starting in four days. I'm just 250 miles away and am eager for the warmth of the Mediterranean.
I've been following the route of the Paris-Nice week-long bicycle race, the first significant race of the year, which takes place the first week of March. It was Lance's first race this year. He bowed out after four days due to the snow and hint of illness. It is known as The Race to the Sun. The interior of France continues to be dank and overcast and chilly, so my ride too is a race to the sun.
I have my six weeks between these two ultimate events all plotted out. I will visit my friend Craig in the Cevannes and Florence and Rachid in Tours once again, and will be able to spend more than an evening with them this year. I will also explore the Pyrenees and its many legendary climbs, something I didn't get to do last year. Its most renowned climb, The Tourmalet, has been included in more than 60 Tours, more than any.
There are several monuments at its summit and one at its base that are an added draw. One of the most storied events in Tour lore occurred on the Tourmalet in 1913 when the French rider Eugene Christophe broke the fork of his bike on the descent. In that era racers had to perform all repairs on their bike. He ran down the mountain, about eight miles, to a blacksmith shop, carrying his bike on his back. It took him two hours to fix his fork, but he was penalized several additional minutes for allowing a teen-aged boy to operate a bellows during the repair. There is a plaque on the building where this took place. I will also seek out a monument to Lance's Italian teammate Fabio Casaratelli, who crashed and died on the descent of a nearby mountain in the 1995 Tour. This year's race will be passing by and will pause to pay tribute to him,
And I will simply be content to meander around France and let my thought roam wherever it might. So far it is been much preoccupied with mourning and honoring and celebrating dear, beloved Crissy, compadre of thirty years, who passed just before my departure. I spent a week at her hospital bedside before she succumbed to cancer after six months of chemotherapy failed to defeat it.
Being at her side was both wrenching and uplifting. It was horrible to see her fading away, but a joy, too, to reflect on her true, lively, frolicsome spirit and all the fun times we'd had together, especially for those ten years starting in the late '70s when we lived and traveled together. If she had pulled through this, we planned on celebrating with a return visit to Puerto Escondido, where we'd spent several winters for months at a time living in a one-room thatched hut with a lone light bulb on a cliff overlooking the best surf beach in Mexico.
Crissy had a rare spirit that charmed or beguiled or confounded whoever she encountered. She was without guile or will, the least conniving or manipulative person that anyone would meet. She never lost her child-like glee and playfulness and purity. She was utterly without agenda. She responded to whoever she encountered, whether the homeless or the corporate exec, with the same cheer and sincerity. She was always a joy to be with, even in her last days. She had a natural flair, but without being flamboyant, as she was untainted by anything that had to do with ego. Not everyone knew what to make of her, as such innocence and purity is so rarely encountered, but anyone with any kind of heart embraced her once they realized her genuineness.
She was so unlike anyone most people know, people didn't always know what to make of her or how to express their appreciation for her. One of her best friends at a nursing home where she worked for several years as activities worker told her, "You're weird," meaning it as high praise. A German we met one winter in Mexico and accompanied to the Grand Canyon told her, "You're abnormal," also as an homage. She was certainly weird and abnormal, but in the highest, most grand sense.
It was heartening to remember all this at her bedside, even as I felt a welling of impending loss, and now on my bike too. It wasn't such a pleasure, however, to recall the last 13 or 14 years of her life when she began hearing voices and schizophrenia set in and stole her light and carefree soul. She battled valiantly, doing whatever she could, to regain herself--quitting drinking and smoking, reading the Bible, allowing herself to be institutionalized for a spell, setting off on her bike in the dead of winter to Cape Kennedy to volunteer for the space program, buying a rake and cleaning up parks near where she lived, and on and on.
She worked a series of jobs with minimum supervision so others wouldn't see her tears and suffering--two years as the lone female and non-Mexican gardener at the Chicago Botanical Gardens, a summer in a similar position for the Bahia Temple in Wilmette, a winter as a bicycle messenger, a holiday season as a Salvation Army bell-ringer. She persevered, but she couldn't regain herself or stop the voices. After several years, she gave into medication, something she long resisted. Her ten years as an activities worker at a nursing home, a job she thrived at as she was in charge of fun and games, made her very leery of medication. She'd seen its effect on so many residents, turning them into virtual zombies. The medication did quell the voices, but they also quelled her zest and spontaneity. She was able to work once again with the elderly, tending to the house-confined, but it brought her little satisfaction.
For better than 40 years she did live a life of her own devising outside the confines of conventionality and brought great cheer to many. After college she lived in Aspen for seven years back when it was a center for the free-spirited in the late '60s and early '70s. She was a "flower child" in all the best sense of the term--joyous and carefree, unconcerned about wealth or career or material acquisitions. Her friends from that era, many of whom called her at the hospital, adore her still. I knew of her before I ever met here. When I finally had that privilege, I was immediately won over. I can revel endlessly in our shared experiences--biking through Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras, three weeks rafting the Grand Canyon, crashing the 1979 World Series in Pittsburgh and Baltimore, spending all day at the multiplex theater-hopping, dumpster-diving, house-painting, our many winters in Mexico whiling away the hours on the beach with Claude and Siegi and Walter and Lino and many others.
Crissy was the queen of the beach, but without airs of any sort. It is a shame that not all of you got to know Crissy in her heyday. She had qualities that all should aspire to. I am happy to have her favorite purple neckerchief on my hip and two pounds of mixed nuts she gave me for my birthday to nibble on. But I am most happy for her bright and sterling good cheer that she allowed to shine on me.
Onward, George
Its not the cycling so much, however, that has drawn me back, but rather The Cycling--The Tour. Like so many of the people I met following The Tour de France last year, who return year after year, I too must do it again, especially since it will be Lance's curtain call. The race doesn't start for two months. I came early, once again, for that Tour de France of film festivals, Cannes, starting in four days. I'm just 250 miles away and am eager for the warmth of the Mediterranean.
I've been following the route of the Paris-Nice week-long bicycle race, the first significant race of the year, which takes place the first week of March. It was Lance's first race this year. He bowed out after four days due to the snow and hint of illness. It is known as The Race to the Sun. The interior of France continues to be dank and overcast and chilly, so my ride too is a race to the sun.
I have my six weeks between these two ultimate events all plotted out. I will visit my friend Craig in the Cevannes and Florence and Rachid in Tours once again, and will be able to spend more than an evening with them this year. I will also explore the Pyrenees and its many legendary climbs, something I didn't get to do last year. Its most renowned climb, The Tourmalet, has been included in more than 60 Tours, more than any.
There are several monuments at its summit and one at its base that are an added draw. One of the most storied events in Tour lore occurred on the Tourmalet in 1913 when the French rider Eugene Christophe broke the fork of his bike on the descent. In that era racers had to perform all repairs on their bike. He ran down the mountain, about eight miles, to a blacksmith shop, carrying his bike on his back. It took him two hours to fix his fork, but he was penalized several additional minutes for allowing a teen-aged boy to operate a bellows during the repair. There is a plaque on the building where this took place. I will also seek out a monument to Lance's Italian teammate Fabio Casaratelli, who crashed and died on the descent of a nearby mountain in the 1995 Tour. This year's race will be passing by and will pause to pay tribute to him,
And I will simply be content to meander around France and let my thought roam wherever it might. So far it is been much preoccupied with mourning and honoring and celebrating dear, beloved Crissy, compadre of thirty years, who passed just before my departure. I spent a week at her hospital bedside before she succumbed to cancer after six months of chemotherapy failed to defeat it.
Being at her side was both wrenching and uplifting. It was horrible to see her fading away, but a joy, too, to reflect on her true, lively, frolicsome spirit and all the fun times we'd had together, especially for those ten years starting in the late '70s when we lived and traveled together. If she had pulled through this, we planned on celebrating with a return visit to Puerto Escondido, where we'd spent several winters for months at a time living in a one-room thatched hut with a lone light bulb on a cliff overlooking the best surf beach in Mexico.
Crissy had a rare spirit that charmed or beguiled or confounded whoever she encountered. She was without guile or will, the least conniving or manipulative person that anyone would meet. She never lost her child-like glee and playfulness and purity. She was utterly without agenda. She responded to whoever she encountered, whether the homeless or the corporate exec, with the same cheer and sincerity. She was always a joy to be with, even in her last days. She had a natural flair, but without being flamboyant, as she was untainted by anything that had to do with ego. Not everyone knew what to make of her, as such innocence and purity is so rarely encountered, but anyone with any kind of heart embraced her once they realized her genuineness.
She was so unlike anyone most people know, people didn't always know what to make of her or how to express their appreciation for her. One of her best friends at a nursing home where she worked for several years as activities worker told her, "You're weird," meaning it as high praise. A German we met one winter in Mexico and accompanied to the Grand Canyon told her, "You're abnormal," also as an homage. She was certainly weird and abnormal, but in the highest, most grand sense.
It was heartening to remember all this at her bedside, even as I felt a welling of impending loss, and now on my bike too. It wasn't such a pleasure, however, to recall the last 13 or 14 years of her life when she began hearing voices and schizophrenia set in and stole her light and carefree soul. She battled valiantly, doing whatever she could, to regain herself--quitting drinking and smoking, reading the Bible, allowing herself to be institutionalized for a spell, setting off on her bike in the dead of winter to Cape Kennedy to volunteer for the space program, buying a rake and cleaning up parks near where she lived, and on and on.
She worked a series of jobs with minimum supervision so others wouldn't see her tears and suffering--two years as the lone female and non-Mexican gardener at the Chicago Botanical Gardens, a summer in a similar position for the Bahia Temple in Wilmette, a winter as a bicycle messenger, a holiday season as a Salvation Army bell-ringer. She persevered, but she couldn't regain herself or stop the voices. After several years, she gave into medication, something she long resisted. Her ten years as an activities worker at a nursing home, a job she thrived at as she was in charge of fun and games, made her very leery of medication. She'd seen its effect on so many residents, turning them into virtual zombies. The medication did quell the voices, but they also quelled her zest and spontaneity. She was able to work once again with the elderly, tending to the house-confined, but it brought her little satisfaction.
For better than 40 years she did live a life of her own devising outside the confines of conventionality and brought great cheer to many. After college she lived in Aspen for seven years back when it was a center for the free-spirited in the late '60s and early '70s. She was a "flower child" in all the best sense of the term--joyous and carefree, unconcerned about wealth or career or material acquisitions. Her friends from that era, many of whom called her at the hospital, adore her still. I knew of her before I ever met here. When I finally had that privilege, I was immediately won over. I can revel endlessly in our shared experiences--biking through Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras, three weeks rafting the Grand Canyon, crashing the 1979 World Series in Pittsburgh and Baltimore, spending all day at the multiplex theater-hopping, dumpster-diving, house-painting, our many winters in Mexico whiling away the hours on the beach with Claude and Siegi and Walter and Lino and many others.
Crissy was the queen of the beach, but without airs of any sort. It is a shame that not all of you got to know Crissy in her heyday. She had qualities that all should aspire to. I am happy to have her favorite purple neckerchief on my hip and two pounds of mixed nuts she gave me for my birthday to nibble on. But I am most happy for her bright and sterling good cheer that she allowed to shine on me.
Onward, George
Friday, March 18, 2005
Quito Adios
Friday March 18, 2005, 46 miles (74 km) - Total so far: 823 miles (1,324 km)
Friends: It's nice to be winding down my hours in a foreign land without having to disrupt my spending habits by trying to ration or use up my remaining local currency before departure since its the same as back home, U.S. greenbacks. Ecuador does have its own coins, in denominations similar to ours up to one dollar, though that too is infiltrated by the occasional American penny, nickel, dime and quarter. Even after two weeks here I am still startled by the site of everyone in the market, buyers and sellers, holding clutches of American currency. It violates my conditioning of years of frequenting third-world countries. It doesn't compute. It's almost unsettling, as if I've slipped into another dimension.
Ecuador does epitomize the third world. There's no doubting you're in a third-world country when you encounter a pick-up truck, overloaded with rolls of toilet paper, slowly driving down the road with the driver holding a megaphone announcing three rolls for one dollar. You also know you're in a third-world country when you pay for something that costs one dollar with a five dollar bill and the owner has to go find change and doesn't return for fifteen minutes. I did bring one fifty dollar bill that I figured I would have to change at a bank. I was able to break it, however, at one of my four dollar hotels (another hallmark of a third-world country). The owner closely examined the 50, as he explained a favorite trick is to add a zero to the five dollar bill and pass it off as a 50, a problem most countries don't have, as the U.S. is about the only nation that doesn't have different colors for different bills.
In my meanderings about Quito the past two days I've tried to include as many parks and plazas and playgrounds as I could. When I'm marooned in a city, I find myself drawn to its open spaces, as I go through withdrawal of being out in the countryside. These open spaces usually have at least one monument to an historical figure, such as Simon Bolivar, and they are a welcome break from the torrid traffic. I'm further attracted to the parks and plazas and playgrounds, as watching a people at play, or at leisure, tells as much about them as anything. These open spaces in this overbuilt urban environment were predominantly inhabited by men. Some were sprawled on the grass playing cards, but the featured action in the biggest park was volleyball. It was a strictly male activity.
There were two games going on in courts separated by a walkway, both surrounded by spectators, packed together standing and sitting. On one court three-man teams were competing and on the other four-man teams. These games weren't simply recreational. There was money at stake. Before each game started, each team handed a wad of cash to a ref. These were adults in their 30s and 40s, wearing everyday dress, all in long pants. The temperature was 60 degrees, but one or two of the competitors had shed their shirts. None were tall enough to spike, but they covered the court like magicians and were quite adapt at placing their shots, especially just dropping the ball over the net. No one served overhand. There didn't seem to be any wagering among the spectators, nor cheers, just rapt attention. Volleyball, more than soccer, was the game of choice along the road, as well, throughout my travels here. Out in the rural areas there were girls at play in addition to the men. Pool tables were also a common site.
All goes well for me in these last two days. My bike box awaited me in the locked vestibule of the hotel I left it at, and the clerk wanted no storage fee. I was able to loosen my pedals with the small wrench I brought, so I didn't need to search out a bike shop to perform the operation. I still wanted to find a bike shop to buy some more of those Ecuadoran brake pads ("zapatas" they are called, as compared to "zapatos", the word for shoes) as well as some patches, which are usually a fraction of the cost of what they are back home, and something I can always use. So far I've needed two in the 800 plus miles of this trip. I thought I'd stumble upon a bike shop in my meanderings about Quito, but in my first 30 miles of exploration all I came upon were several outfitters advertising bike tours and several multi-purpose stores with bikes out front. None sold brake shoes or patches. They sent me off in the direction of a bike shop, but since I wasn't desperate, I made no determined effort to find one, and didn't. But finally, a first-rate shop, selling even clip-less pedals and helmets, turned up a couple miles north of the airport in the nicer part of Quito. I bought some 90 cent brake pads and 100 patches for $1.50, the only things I'll be declaring on my customs report tomorrow.
I opted for a hotel in the New Town, rather than the Old Town, as it was closer to the airport and had a greater choice of hotels and restaurants (ranging from Mexican to Indian) and travel agencies and outfitters and Internet cafes catering to the gringoes. It was a gringo ghetto akin to that of the Khao San area of Bangkok or Freak Street in Kathmandu, except there were no hoards of gringos. About the only place I encountered any was in the Internet cafes. They are significant enough that Lonely Planet lists them as one of the highlights of Quito, not the most flattering of descriptions, but not necessarily inaccurate. They are cheap, most wanting 80 cents for an hour, compared to two dollars at Banos. I actually found one for 60 cents an hour by accident, as it had no sign advertising its cheapness, unlike just about all the others that had 80 cents prominently displayed in their windows. I did a lot of catching up on the news there, learning, among other things, that Lance finished 140th in the prologue of the week-long Paris-Nice race, his first race of the year, and then after four stages dropped out. It is nothing to be alarmed about. There are still over 100 days before the start of The Tour.
It is most welcome to have a choice of restaurants. One of my main criteria in choosing a place to eat is that it doesn't have blaring music or a blaring television. It's not always easy to find. I had to settle for a Chinese restaurant last night. It had a TV, but it was in an adjoining room and not too loud. Still, I couldn't help but look up occasionally at the movie that was playing, the Michael Jordan animated feature with Bill Murray, followed by Kevin Kostner as Eliot Ness in the "Untouchables." They were stark reminders that I was heading home to Chicago. And from the kitchen I could hear Abba.
So another trip nears its conclusion. It was good to see Don Jaime's new domain and to have confirmed that he is the same ol' Jim, instigator and agitator. In Chicago he helped establish a thriving Critical Mass, spearheaded a movement to depave Lake Shore Drive and hosted poetry slams. Already here in Ecuador, he's becoming a community leader. He's writing letters to the editor and signing them, against the advice of locals, complaining about "fucking idiots" scorching the streets of Banos on dune buggies (cuadrones) and other ills. He's also trying to organize a weekend of art exhibits in Banos similar to Wicker Park's "Around the Coyote" and is negotiating to sponsor one of the town's soccer teams. It was nice to get in a little biking with him. It would have been nicer to have had more, but no matter how much there'd been, it wouldn't have been enough.
It was also good to acquaint myself with my new bike before subjecting it to a prolonged excursion, as I will this summer. I am already excited about another two weeks of movies at Cannes and trooping along with Lance and company around France for three weeks, and between the two getting in more than overnight visits with the friends I met up with in France last summer. I am also looking forward to the ease of camping in France, the variety of food, the late sunsets and the amiability and responsiveness of the locals, which weren't always a part of this experience. It was still a most satisfying adventure. Next time I return to these parts I hope I can entice Don Jaime to join me for a jaunt through Colombia, where the bicycle and those who ride it are celebrated as nowhere else I've been.
All for now, George
Friends: It's nice to be winding down my hours in a foreign land without having to disrupt my spending habits by trying to ration or use up my remaining local currency before departure since its the same as back home, U.S. greenbacks. Ecuador does have its own coins, in denominations similar to ours up to one dollar, though that too is infiltrated by the occasional American penny, nickel, dime and quarter. Even after two weeks here I am still startled by the site of everyone in the market, buyers and sellers, holding clutches of American currency. It violates my conditioning of years of frequenting third-world countries. It doesn't compute. It's almost unsettling, as if I've slipped into another dimension.
Ecuador does epitomize the third world. There's no doubting you're in a third-world country when you encounter a pick-up truck, overloaded with rolls of toilet paper, slowly driving down the road with the driver holding a megaphone announcing three rolls for one dollar. You also know you're in a third-world country when you pay for something that costs one dollar with a five dollar bill and the owner has to go find change and doesn't return for fifteen minutes. I did bring one fifty dollar bill that I figured I would have to change at a bank. I was able to break it, however, at one of my four dollar hotels (another hallmark of a third-world country). The owner closely examined the 50, as he explained a favorite trick is to add a zero to the five dollar bill and pass it off as a 50, a problem most countries don't have, as the U.S. is about the only nation that doesn't have different colors for different bills.
In my meanderings about Quito the past two days I've tried to include as many parks and plazas and playgrounds as I could. When I'm marooned in a city, I find myself drawn to its open spaces, as I go through withdrawal of being out in the countryside. These open spaces usually have at least one monument to an historical figure, such as Simon Bolivar, and they are a welcome break from the torrid traffic. I'm further attracted to the parks and plazas and playgrounds, as watching a people at play, or at leisure, tells as much about them as anything. These open spaces in this overbuilt urban environment were predominantly inhabited by men. Some were sprawled on the grass playing cards, but the featured action in the biggest park was volleyball. It was a strictly male activity.
There were two games going on in courts separated by a walkway, both surrounded by spectators, packed together standing and sitting. On one court three-man teams were competing and on the other four-man teams. These games weren't simply recreational. There was money at stake. Before each game started, each team handed a wad of cash to a ref. These were adults in their 30s and 40s, wearing everyday dress, all in long pants. The temperature was 60 degrees, but one or two of the competitors had shed their shirts. None were tall enough to spike, but they covered the court like magicians and were quite adapt at placing their shots, especially just dropping the ball over the net. No one served overhand. There didn't seem to be any wagering among the spectators, nor cheers, just rapt attention. Volleyball, more than soccer, was the game of choice along the road, as well, throughout my travels here. Out in the rural areas there were girls at play in addition to the men. Pool tables were also a common site.
All goes well for me in these last two days. My bike box awaited me in the locked vestibule of the hotel I left it at, and the clerk wanted no storage fee. I was able to loosen my pedals with the small wrench I brought, so I didn't need to search out a bike shop to perform the operation. I still wanted to find a bike shop to buy some more of those Ecuadoran brake pads ("zapatas" they are called, as compared to "zapatos", the word for shoes) as well as some patches, which are usually a fraction of the cost of what they are back home, and something I can always use. So far I've needed two in the 800 plus miles of this trip. I thought I'd stumble upon a bike shop in my meanderings about Quito, but in my first 30 miles of exploration all I came upon were several outfitters advertising bike tours and several multi-purpose stores with bikes out front. None sold brake shoes or patches. They sent me off in the direction of a bike shop, but since I wasn't desperate, I made no determined effort to find one, and didn't. But finally, a first-rate shop, selling even clip-less pedals and helmets, turned up a couple miles north of the airport in the nicer part of Quito. I bought some 90 cent brake pads and 100 patches for $1.50, the only things I'll be declaring on my customs report tomorrow.
I opted for a hotel in the New Town, rather than the Old Town, as it was closer to the airport and had a greater choice of hotels and restaurants (ranging from Mexican to Indian) and travel agencies and outfitters and Internet cafes catering to the gringoes. It was a gringo ghetto akin to that of the Khao San area of Bangkok or Freak Street in Kathmandu, except there were no hoards of gringos. About the only place I encountered any was in the Internet cafes. They are significant enough that Lonely Planet lists them as one of the highlights of Quito, not the most flattering of descriptions, but not necessarily inaccurate. They are cheap, most wanting 80 cents for an hour, compared to two dollars at Banos. I actually found one for 60 cents an hour by accident, as it had no sign advertising its cheapness, unlike just about all the others that had 80 cents prominently displayed in their windows. I did a lot of catching up on the news there, learning, among other things, that Lance finished 140th in the prologue of the week-long Paris-Nice race, his first race of the year, and then after four stages dropped out. It is nothing to be alarmed about. There are still over 100 days before the start of The Tour.
It is most welcome to have a choice of restaurants. One of my main criteria in choosing a place to eat is that it doesn't have blaring music or a blaring television. It's not always easy to find. I had to settle for a Chinese restaurant last night. It had a TV, but it was in an adjoining room and not too loud. Still, I couldn't help but look up occasionally at the movie that was playing, the Michael Jordan animated feature with Bill Murray, followed by Kevin Kostner as Eliot Ness in the "Untouchables." They were stark reminders that I was heading home to Chicago. And from the kitchen I could hear Abba.
So another trip nears its conclusion. It was good to see Don Jaime's new domain and to have confirmed that he is the same ol' Jim, instigator and agitator. In Chicago he helped establish a thriving Critical Mass, spearheaded a movement to depave Lake Shore Drive and hosted poetry slams. Already here in Ecuador, he's becoming a community leader. He's writing letters to the editor and signing them, against the advice of locals, complaining about "fucking idiots" scorching the streets of Banos on dune buggies (cuadrones) and other ills. He's also trying to organize a weekend of art exhibits in Banos similar to Wicker Park's "Around the Coyote" and is negotiating to sponsor one of the town's soccer teams. It was nice to get in a little biking with him. It would have been nicer to have had more, but no matter how much there'd been, it wouldn't have been enough.
It was also good to acquaint myself with my new bike before subjecting it to a prolonged excursion, as I will this summer. I am already excited about another two weeks of movies at Cannes and trooping along with Lance and company around France for three weeks, and between the two getting in more than overnight visits with the friends I met up with in France last summer. I am also looking forward to the ease of camping in France, the variety of food, the late sunsets and the amiability and responsiveness of the locals, which weren't always a part of this experience. It was still a most satisfying adventure. Next time I return to these parts I hope I can entice Don Jaime to join me for a jaunt through Colombia, where the bicycle and those who ride it are celebrated as nowhere else I've been.
All for now, George
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Quito, Ecuador
Quito
Thursday March 17, 2005, 82 miles (132 km) - Total so far: 777 miles (1,250 km)
Friends: The climb to Quito will go down as one of the more enjoyable I have encountered. It was no great conquest like "The World's Most Dangerous Road" in Bolivia that peaked out at over 15,000 feet or the climb to Kathmandu over the Himalayas or even some of the Tour de France cols. It's satisfaction came from the pleasure of it rather than enduring the strain. The first 25 miles had a gentle enough grade that I rarely had to use my small chain ring, and could average ten miles an hour. It was almost effortless. The road followed the fast-rushing, predominantly white-water Rio Pilaton through a narrow, lush, green canyon, much more confining and much less spectacular than the canyon from Banos to Puyo. It was heartening to be gaining elevation and knocking off miles with such ease, and with the temperature cooling as I climbed, it was almost invigorating. The first few miles were lined with stands selling tropical fruits for those returning to the highlands. I thought I could do without my helmet, but I dared not, as there was too much traffic, many impatient to pass slower vehicles, both ascending and descending. I had a micro shoulder, set off by a white line, studded with reflectors, though I didn't necessarily have to stick to my side of the line.
I set out late in the afternoon from Santo Domingo hoping to get a leg up on the climb, despite the threat of rain, which did materialize. The altitude function on my cyclometer has turned into a barometer and it was going berserk, indicating the imminence of rain, a near daily event. There was a town 15 miles away, though I did not know if it would be a Zhud and without hotels. But two miles before it, about half an hour before dark, I came upon a cluster of restaurants and one lone hotel, a veritable oasis. I was the only resident that night, though the accompanying restaurant was popular with buses. I had stayed in a bare bones three dollar hotel the previous night in Buena Fe, which left me with a rash of bed bug bites the next morning. This, at five dollars, was much nicer and cleaner, though as with the bed bug hotel, it had no hot water, no great necessity.
My breakfast consisted of a couple of self-prepared peanut butter and banana sandwiches, as I tried to finish off the jar of peanut butter I had brought along. I had another leisurely hour of climbing. I kept thinking what a superlative descent this would have been, probably not having to brake for 20 miles or so. Finally, the going got steep and I had to resort to my lowest gear for prolonged stretches. Still, with the comfortable temperature and some cloud cover, it was a climb that had me merrily humming. There was enough traffic on this route that there were no maniacal dogs. Nor were there any mud slides, as I'd encountered elsewhere, blocking half or more of the road. An 18-wheeler, however, had slid off the road into the cliff side at about the half-way point. Traffic was halted and backed up as a tow truck tried to extricate it. I could circumnavigate the congestion, and for better than half an hour, had no traffic coming up from behind me. When it finally was unleashed, I took a break and let them all pass. My only complaint was the occasional ill-timed friendly toot, a little too close to my ear.
It was exactly 100 kilometers from Santo Domingo to the Pan American Highway, and then another twenty miles to Quito. There were nicely designed signs, the best I'd encountered on this trip, with a yellow circle and red arrow counting down every kilometer. The design would have been suitable for the Road to the Sun in Glacier National Park. I had anticipated the climb taking me two days, but I was actually beginning to visualize the possibility of getting to Quito that night. Making it before dark would be very close. It all hinged on whether the grade tapered off, or if it remained steep. I began to closely monitor my speed and the ground I was covering, happy to have this self-imposed challenge to inspire me. By early afternoon, I had climbed into the clouds, and once again I was in mist that limited visibility and eventually grew into a drizzle. My pauses had to be short before I cooled off too much, which all aided in my effort to get to Quito this night.
The last five miles to the Pan American highway were downhill, but in the rain, preventing me from letting loose, as I otherwise would have. It was five p.m. when I reached the intersection. If I'd seen a hotel, I would have grabbed it, as I was cold and wet. I had scouted out a couple places before the summit as places to camp, but they weren't suitable. Even though I had biked the remaining twenty miles to Quito on my way to Banos, I couldn't remember how much climbing they demanded. If it was flat or downhill, I could manage those twenty miles in the 90 minutes of light I had left. There was an initial descent, but then a prolonged climb on a severely pot-holed stretch that was almost as bad as the worst of Cambodia's "Roads from Hell." It was appalling that the main thoroughfare into a country's capital could be so horrific. With bumper to bumper traffic rushing to get to Quito in time for dinner, it was no fun. I nearly crashed before I could extricate myself from my clipless pedals. Fortunately, they are just loose enough that I jerked my foot out when I was close to a 45 degree angle. After 45 minutes I knew I couldn't make it to Quito before dark and began looking for a place to camp. It would be a minor miracle, but fifteen minutes later I noticed an abandoned house on a small cliff over the road. There was a corn field beside it.
There was a steep path up to it. I was happy, on one hand, to notice fresh donkey prints pressed into the dirt, as they gave me a little extra footing, but I was leery that it might mean a habitation near by. There were two small dwellings off in the distance, somewhat blocked by vegetation and no one to be seen. It was raining, which meant there wouldn't be too many people about with prying eyes. This would have to do. It was fairly secluded, though I had the roar of traffic below me. I had just enough food, a tin of tuna, some nuts, a granola bar, and, if need be, several power bars. I was tired enough to be asleep by eight, the rain drops on the tent drowning out the traffic below. At least I wasn't hugging the highway, as I did my first night in Ecuador, when only a hedge of bushes separated me and my tent from the highway, with a barbed wire fence on my other side. Not all my camping in Ecuador was so marginal. I had one night in a quiet, secluded forest, with a thick covering of pine needles that made for a fine mattress. Off in the jungle, I camped behind an abandoned house with no other habitations within sight or sound. But all in all, it was a challenge to find a place to camp here, even more challenging than India.
It was twelve miles further into the heart of Quito. I was there by eight a.m. As I had breakfast, I perused the guidebook for a hotel. The first I went to was happy to let me have a room, even at this early hour. My next order of business was to check email and send out this. Now I will go to the airport to see if my bike box is at the hotel I left it at. If not, I will utter an expletive, and then begin the search for a box at a bike shop. My flight home is in 48 hours giving me time to explore the city, and maybe even take a ride back up to the northern hemisphere to one of the monuments marking the equator about 15 miles north of the city.
Later, George
Thursday March 17, 2005, 82 miles (132 km) - Total so far: 777 miles (1,250 km)
Friends: The climb to Quito will go down as one of the more enjoyable I have encountered. It was no great conquest like "The World's Most Dangerous Road" in Bolivia that peaked out at over 15,000 feet or the climb to Kathmandu over the Himalayas or even some of the Tour de France cols. It's satisfaction came from the pleasure of it rather than enduring the strain. The first 25 miles had a gentle enough grade that I rarely had to use my small chain ring, and could average ten miles an hour. It was almost effortless. The road followed the fast-rushing, predominantly white-water Rio Pilaton through a narrow, lush, green canyon, much more confining and much less spectacular than the canyon from Banos to Puyo. It was heartening to be gaining elevation and knocking off miles with such ease, and with the temperature cooling as I climbed, it was almost invigorating. The first few miles were lined with stands selling tropical fruits for those returning to the highlands. I thought I could do without my helmet, but I dared not, as there was too much traffic, many impatient to pass slower vehicles, both ascending and descending. I had a micro shoulder, set off by a white line, studded with reflectors, though I didn't necessarily have to stick to my side of the line.
I set out late in the afternoon from Santo Domingo hoping to get a leg up on the climb, despite the threat of rain, which did materialize. The altitude function on my cyclometer has turned into a barometer and it was going berserk, indicating the imminence of rain, a near daily event. There was a town 15 miles away, though I did not know if it would be a Zhud and without hotels. But two miles before it, about half an hour before dark, I came upon a cluster of restaurants and one lone hotel, a veritable oasis. I was the only resident that night, though the accompanying restaurant was popular with buses. I had stayed in a bare bones three dollar hotel the previous night in Buena Fe, which left me with a rash of bed bug bites the next morning. This, at five dollars, was much nicer and cleaner, though as with the bed bug hotel, it had no hot water, no great necessity.
My breakfast consisted of a couple of self-prepared peanut butter and banana sandwiches, as I tried to finish off the jar of peanut butter I had brought along. I had another leisurely hour of climbing. I kept thinking what a superlative descent this would have been, probably not having to brake for 20 miles or so. Finally, the going got steep and I had to resort to my lowest gear for prolonged stretches. Still, with the comfortable temperature and some cloud cover, it was a climb that had me merrily humming. There was enough traffic on this route that there were no maniacal dogs. Nor were there any mud slides, as I'd encountered elsewhere, blocking half or more of the road. An 18-wheeler, however, had slid off the road into the cliff side at about the half-way point. Traffic was halted and backed up as a tow truck tried to extricate it. I could circumnavigate the congestion, and for better than half an hour, had no traffic coming up from behind me. When it finally was unleashed, I took a break and let them all pass. My only complaint was the occasional ill-timed friendly toot, a little too close to my ear.
It was exactly 100 kilometers from Santo Domingo to the Pan American Highway, and then another twenty miles to Quito. There were nicely designed signs, the best I'd encountered on this trip, with a yellow circle and red arrow counting down every kilometer. The design would have been suitable for the Road to the Sun in Glacier National Park. I had anticipated the climb taking me two days, but I was actually beginning to visualize the possibility of getting to Quito that night. Making it before dark would be very close. It all hinged on whether the grade tapered off, or if it remained steep. I began to closely monitor my speed and the ground I was covering, happy to have this self-imposed challenge to inspire me. By early afternoon, I had climbed into the clouds, and once again I was in mist that limited visibility and eventually grew into a drizzle. My pauses had to be short before I cooled off too much, which all aided in my effort to get to Quito this night.
The last five miles to the Pan American highway were downhill, but in the rain, preventing me from letting loose, as I otherwise would have. It was five p.m. when I reached the intersection. If I'd seen a hotel, I would have grabbed it, as I was cold and wet. I had scouted out a couple places before the summit as places to camp, but they weren't suitable. Even though I had biked the remaining twenty miles to Quito on my way to Banos, I couldn't remember how much climbing they demanded. If it was flat or downhill, I could manage those twenty miles in the 90 minutes of light I had left. There was an initial descent, but then a prolonged climb on a severely pot-holed stretch that was almost as bad as the worst of Cambodia's "Roads from Hell." It was appalling that the main thoroughfare into a country's capital could be so horrific. With bumper to bumper traffic rushing to get to Quito in time for dinner, it was no fun. I nearly crashed before I could extricate myself from my clipless pedals. Fortunately, they are just loose enough that I jerked my foot out when I was close to a 45 degree angle. After 45 minutes I knew I couldn't make it to Quito before dark and began looking for a place to camp. It would be a minor miracle, but fifteen minutes later I noticed an abandoned house on a small cliff over the road. There was a corn field beside it.
There was a steep path up to it. I was happy, on one hand, to notice fresh donkey prints pressed into the dirt, as they gave me a little extra footing, but I was leery that it might mean a habitation near by. There were two small dwellings off in the distance, somewhat blocked by vegetation and no one to be seen. It was raining, which meant there wouldn't be too many people about with prying eyes. This would have to do. It was fairly secluded, though I had the roar of traffic below me. I had just enough food, a tin of tuna, some nuts, a granola bar, and, if need be, several power bars. I was tired enough to be asleep by eight, the rain drops on the tent drowning out the traffic below. At least I wasn't hugging the highway, as I did my first night in Ecuador, when only a hedge of bushes separated me and my tent from the highway, with a barbed wire fence on my other side. Not all my camping in Ecuador was so marginal. I had one night in a quiet, secluded forest, with a thick covering of pine needles that made for a fine mattress. Off in the jungle, I camped behind an abandoned house with no other habitations within sight or sound. But all in all, it was a challenge to find a place to camp here, even more challenging than India.
It was twelve miles further into the heart of Quito. I was there by eight a.m. As I had breakfast, I perused the guidebook for a hotel. The first I went to was happy to let me have a room, even at this early hour. My next order of business was to check email and send out this. Now I will go to the airport to see if my bike box is at the hotel I left it at. If not, I will utter an expletive, and then begin the search for a box at a bike shop. My flight home is in 48 hours giving me time to explore the city, and maybe even take a ride back up to the northern hemisphere to one of the monuments marking the equator about 15 miles north of the city.
Later, George
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