Denver and St Paddy's Day 2013

Denver was the first stop on our epic trip and our first time in the US. This came after a hectic morning that started far too soon by clearing out the remainder of what was left from our life in our London flat. Following this was the commute to Heathrow via struggle town with only some hairy dog champagne to soothe the travel commencement. It was late evening when we arrived following long haul 2-stop flight. Although never featuring on the ‘must visit’ planning list, Denver was the most logical starting point to progress through the trip’s feature destinations. We had three full days penned in, including Saint Patrick's Day.

We stayed in a neat modern and very liveable unit within the Residence Inn complex about 3km north west of the stated centre of town. The walk in involved a few inner suburban blocks, an over pass above the main motorway through town, a bridge crossing the picturesque South Platte River and its park land then up into the main mall. The mall was about 1km long and open like Brisbane's Queen Street, even having a free shuttle service up the middle end to end. But as far as malls go it was somewhat disappointing - mainly mobile phone shops, banks, and all-American restaurant and bar chains.

We did a lot of walking into town and through the local sprawling suburbs boarded in by heavy main roads. For a big city there is a lot of space with no perceivable dense city centre and no urgency to stack homes in on themselves. Still struggling to shrug of winter it was in a kind of no man's land between seasons; dull, starved of colour, vibrancy and living vegetation with no hint of spring. This was despite some bright crisp days with enough sun to burn some colour back into our UK solar starved pasty white skin. A modern city not wanting for space and forgotten by the passing of seasons added to the isolated and western cowboy feel of the place.

One night we ordered pizza, it was massive "just like in the movies!" A piece like a sheet of A4 paper. It came with a mountain condiments - olive oil, chilli oil, chilli flakes, parmesan cheese, cream cheese, jack cheese, extra herbs... this was our introduction to what we coined "the great American fat-me-up." 

Denver is meant to be the beer capital of the US of A, with more domestic, export, craft beers and places pouring them than you’d care to poke at. I wasn't a fan however, finding most of it to be very hoppy, driven by tangy fruit tones resulting in a heavy, flat, punch like drink you have to consciously struggle through. Looking for a crisp, refreshing, easy to ignore larger didn't fare any better. Not a surprise considering Coors with the biggest single brewery facility in the world is based on the outskirts of town, and that hardly has a reputation. After several attempts and blanks looks when asking for something not too hop heavy or a local larger with some character, I settled for Fat Tire Amber Ale by New Belgium. Available in most places. 


Of course the 17th provided the perfect opportunity to stick with a known classic. We walked into town under the high and grey sky, getting into the spirit of things and staking a good spot for the St Patrick’s Day parade-  the biggest in the States west of the Mississippi. It was a great parade with an upbeat vibe and all sorts doing the rounds. I'll let the photos speak for themselves - I've dumped them all at the end.

Following this we looped around the city making our way back to the apartment. we mixed it up with locals at the bar where the band gave us some percussion pieces to play along with. Turns out Anne can jingle a mean tambourine. There was also some old girl who kept forgetting that she’d already told us how her late 3^rd hubby of 30 years ago. He owned a Porsche dealership in California… she’d been living it up on the insurance payout since and missed the 80’s and half the 90's all together.

Sure it had its draw backs, but in the end Denver was a great intro to the States, showing good mix of typical America that’s not always covered off by the more popular destinations. A place built around big cars, big streets, big boots, big hats and big pizza.

After another big day of walking failed to secure a hire car but the internet came through via Kayak, which become our go-to site for bookings for most of our trip. With pick-up from the airport, we took an early morning 20 minute cab and in no time our small Nee-San was aimed west. Behind us the mid-morning sun and Denver on the flat High Plains - a mile high it sits. Ahead the Front Range of the Rockies exploding into the sky. 

We had a six hour drive on the I70 up through 3000 metre-plus passes including Vail Pass at 3,250m. A few weeks before there had been a bad multi-car pile-up so I had a degree of nerves. At the very top we had heavy cloud, light snow failing, and 8% gradient to deal with. The locals up front in big cars kept the wheel tracks cleared; their glowing tail lights beady beacons and the exposed black tarmac our life-line in the white out conditions. No, luckily it wasn't that bad and there was no need to nurse the car much less than the light traffic and speed limit called for. And only once on the dash did I see a momentary flash of the traction warning light. With no dramas we were over the top and a few hours later winding along some magnificent road cut into the deep canyons of Eagle River. 

Soon enough it completely flattened out into wild west desert, open and bleached in sun "just like in the movies!" 

We were coming up to the state board with Utah and despite the excellent state of the roads they were mostly empty, only passing another vehicle every 10 minutes or so. To the north across a vast expanse an abrupt mountain range loomed occupying the entire horizon out the right hand side of a car. We felt small and insignificant on the thin black ribbon of road threading out to the eternal distance. Comfortably cruising along at 100km per hour, I found myself thinking back to those first Europeans, prospectors, missionaries, traders and outlaws pioneering out into the emptiness of this somewhat waste land, It would have been a different story back then 250 odd years ago trekking what eventually came to be known as the "Old Spanish Trail". We're they equally impressed by the beautiful layers of coloured earth? Whites, yellows, browns, reds and even purples.

We pushed on returning to modern civilisation at the adventure tourism town of Moab with a few good hours till sun down.

French Revolutions pt 3 - Lets go back to the start

We get our French on starting in Brittany and Normandy seeing three destination heavy weights - Mount Saint Michel, the D-Day Beaches, and the Bayeux Tapestry.

We get rolling

It was a grey and non-descript English day as we made our way down to the southern edge of the isle. Typical spring weather, threatening to completely deteriorate one moment, promising to brighten up the next but inevitably doing neither. But our spirits could not be dampened. And like crazy-excited, super-cool kids heading the queue for the first roller-coaster run of the day, later that day we commanded pole position over the other wheeled travellers lined up and waiting to board the ferry. It was a special day, today we had commenced easily the most anticipated module of our whole travel epic – cycle touring France.

To keep the excitement levels at peak, as the overnight ferry streamed away from Portsmouth into the English Channel, we insisted on maintaining our place at the front table, literally. The ship’s ballroom was half empty with what could be best described as a young bingo crowd, but there we were all by ourselves enjoying the cheesy on-board entertainment for the night – the fine magical talents of young Tina and Christy, followed by Theo and his easy baritone doing all the wholesome greats.

Saint-Malo - The harbour front 

Saint-Malo Welcomes us to France

Eight o’clock the next morning we arrived in France proper. We tentatively steered our barge like bikes through the morning traffic of Saint-Malo, searching for the train station. It’s always a good idea get your head around where the station is, train departures, and even purchase tickets ahead of time. You don’t want to get lost and miss the only train for the day when its time to leave. As a bonus we came across another pair of cycle tourers, Australians of course. They where wrapping up their travels and we had a good yarn. Next we circled the inner-city water ways to check-in with our AirBnB host, Gaël. After that we were free to explore the historic port city. 

looking out towards the English Channel Islands

Saint-Malo is a classic European old walled city that dominates the coast. We started our French adventure wondering the tight old city streets loosely making our way to the water front. But not before some petit déjeuner and taking in the early noon feel.

We walked the port and coastal fortress walls overlooking beaches, an ocean set swimming pool, and little boats threading through the craggy islands.  All the while I imaged the corsairs privateers heading out to terrorise the enemies France. They were based here back in the day. Later we found Saint-Malo teaming with tourist out to enjoy dinning in the open town squares, both white table silver service and street vendors, it was the stuff of TV travel shows. Despite the tourists Saint-Malo is great for a full day and its not hard to walk the back streets and suddenly find yourself in corners void of tourists but full of the locals going about their day with typical French fare. Maybe it was the excitement of the start of our trip because while the city may not feature in too many “top 10 spots to visit list” I would not hesitation to give it a big thumbs-up for a day’s visit, possibly more as a base to enjoy the surrounding sights of the sea and land.

Saint-Malo locals

Ponterson and Mont Saint-Michel

Not feeling up to a 45km ride with all our gear just yet, we took two short train legs to the town of Pontorson. A typical town of the region and situated on a cycling path that follows an estuary for 9km to the base of top ten French destination: Mont Saint Michel.

The tucked away campsite was modern with everything you’d want - manicured grass pitches with power and high hedge divisions, a café/bar, a pool, ponies and goats, a massive super market over the road, and plenty of Germans and Englishmen pottering about. Plus there was a complimentary late night self-drive golf buggy service for getting to know the place afterhours.

Mont Saint-Michel was truly impressive and just a 30min ride away. We also found the small rural neighbourhood of Pontorson enjoyable, despite not being able to find a showing of the first State of Origin game. A local burger place found a purely rugby sports channel on cable TV but the under 21 jnr World Cup was deemed more important to French viewers. We cruised the picturesque streets checking out the local farmers markets, cafes and speciality shops.

The streets have this bizarre speaker-horn sound system hanging off posts and the walls, I guess it would be used for community and tourist announcements, but to me in the sitting of this perfect community it suspiciously came across as brain washing propaganda material. Unable to understand the young boy, I imagined he was preaching the merits of being French, “We should all be French, just like me. This is good. I was once not French but now I am and you should be French like me too….”

For lunch we found a quiet eatery with an attractive menu du jour. Hesitantly, we expressed intent to sit at the vacant prime table outside, we weren’t sure if place was even open for trading. 40 minutes later the place was packed, humming with je ne sais quoi, as I tucked into my steak and chips.

deep back streets of Mont Saint Michel

The Historic town of Bayeux

Keeping to our tight schedule after just two days in Pontorson we left for the larger regional centre of Bayeux, again taking the train.  This would be our base for visiting the D-Day beaches and memorials. We arrived just in time to pitch our tent in the urban campsite to take shelter from the rain and cold that had swept in. It drizzled all day when we set off with our tour group to visit the World War II sights. The young tour guide was connected to the battle by way of his grandma on one side of family; a collateral fatality of allied bombing, and his grandpa on other side who suffered interrogation and death as a civilian at the hands of the Germans. There was not much physically left to get a sense of the battle scenes but the moody weather, memorials and guide still left a lasting impression.

Bayeux has an impressive Cathedral and is also famous for the 70m Bayeux Tapestry. This depicts characters and their story in the lead up to the 1066 conquesting invasion of England by William, Duke of Normandy later William the Conqueror. We took an afternoon to take this in additional to the usual backstreet wonderings making the most of long daylight hours.

La baguette

Mezidon – “Deux cidres s'il vous plait”

In her research Anne came across the “Cider Trail” which was immediately slotted into our itinerary.

http://www.theguardian.com/travel/2009/oct/10/cider-route-normandy-calvados-hotel

Following the obligatory broken sign-English conversation with the shift manager at the Hotel Restaurant Le St  Pierre in Mezidon-Canon we were moving aside crates of la mousse canard and  Cassoulet to secure the bikes in the chef’s store room. The next day, in perfect spring weather we set off for our first big ride. We spun over 50km in the saddle including a few sharp climbs at 7% gradient (80m assent in less than 1.5km), a big step up from the leisurely roll a few days before to Mont Saint-Michel. 

Anne discussing her Klick-fix handbag with the locals

I would recommend cider touring. We plotted out course to link a few of the operators participating in the cider trail scheme and found signs along the way to help us. They take you through the tastings just like wine, and afterwards you can sit out in the farm house garden and enjoy a bottle of your pick  re-hydrating and fuelling up for the leg to the next press house. The same can’t be said for wine tasting if you were to share a bottle at each stop for the day… Tastings aside, the day was worth just the ride through the country side. It’s a great way to get in touch with the land, every kilometre has reveals a new perspective, there’s the sent of farm woods, you get to nod and throw a “bonjour” at the odd local, its easy to stop or double back for a second take, and its hard to beat the wind in your hair in addition to the health and calorific benefits of the hours in the saddle. 

lunch time

We wrapped up the first week on the bikes in France having experienced some of the more renowned attractions of the region and also and enjoying the simpler things on offer.  There were no major setbacks being on the bikes, if anything things were easier than expected. The tempo was more than we’d have liked but this and our general excitement was off set by the whole relaxed and welcoming vibe that permeated the region.

Next on our French adventure we head to the World War I cemeteries of northern France before settling down in Epernay for four days of bubbles.

And I'll promise to keep the blogs coming despite it being some time since we were actually in France.

French Revolutions pt 2 - The Spanish Defection

Riding in the Basque Country

***** This post has strong mt biking content and may not be suitable for all readers *****

San Sebastian in the Basque region of northern Spain was added to our destination list for its obvious beauty; a mix of Spanish sun, the beach, surf, passion for food, and its fusion of modern glamour with old European charm. 

Looking south on to Gros Beach from Ulia

Many a visitors/local will happily rant about their love affair of this special place. Lesser known, but no less appealing to, was the amazing riding that came to my attention via Doug at BasqueMTB.

So a shout out to Doug who made our trip and my off-road riding here possible - answering my questions and allowing me to forward post my freeriding gear to avoided needlessly lugging it round France. And then after a crazy time handling a big group from Mallorca he managed to fit me in for some rides.

http://www.pinkbike.com/u/dougbasquemtb/

http://www.basquemtb.com/

For my first serious off road ride in months however, I went solo, clean skin (sans camel-pack or water bottle), with no local knowledge. I hoped to find worthwhile riding in the Mount Ulia hills that dominate San Sebastian (SS) from the east. Eventually I figured out where the trails started and eventually made my way up to the top. Several of the trails I ventured down dissolved into nothing, choked out with thorns or ended up on tarmac. Still, I enjoyed 2-3 nice technical single track descents obviously popular with the local riders. Also it was a blast bombing back into to the Gros part of SS which ended with a long alleyway consisting of several stair sections and a sissy line off to the side. I found the trails here old-school “natural,” developed over time by walkers negotiating the sides of the hill, with little design and sculpting for bikes. It was mostly loose sand over hardpack or rich dark soil in the woods but always chunks of rocks to keep things exciting especially when gradients increased and things got wet. Combined with the heat it was very reminiscent of Australian conditions.

The next morning I took the train out of town to meet Doug and I joined the group he had for the week – a dozen old timers from the Spanish island of Mallorca. All close friends. All members of a cycle club. All sporting exotic top-end rides. All in exceptional physical condition. All decked out in XC Lycra and matching club jerseys. Today we would ride the coastal route from Hondarribia, on the boarder with France, all the way back to San Sebastian via the hills of Jaizkibel and Ulia with a quick ferry to link Pasai Donibane to Pasaia at the half way point.

 

We headed over to the grass covered north-east edge of Jaizkibel initially sharing the trail with walkers and dogs. Following the spectacular coast we dipped in and out of ridgelines shaped like fingers stretching out to meet the sea. Given the group this made for some fierce competition in the old school hill climb stakes as we tackled the short, technical and dusty ascents. Additionally, the terrain made for tricky descents with a myriad of line options for weaving down the random sand stone ledges and foot holes dug out by walkers. On one occasion coming into a blind corner I got a 4-5 foot roll-in all wrong. The front tyre hung up in the pit of what I though was a doable transition. It was not so. I had to bail over the bars. Fortunately, I managed to roll it out with no dramas, much to the amusement of everyone else, “Bueno?” “Si, si. Bueno. Bueno. Thanks.”

A snack stop over looking the cliffs then a brutal grind up to the 540 metre heights of Jaizkibel. An eternity and 3 blown lungs later, I’m last to the top up in the clouds. There are massive vultures flying about looking for road kill or out of condition mt bikers.

Not far off the peak we get stuck into some single track tracing a ridge across open grass land. Although not overly steep, it’s a tight trail and littered with chunks of sandstone in the form of baby heads, gnarly blocks, and rock gardens, plus the track is wide open and the hard pack is fast. The old boys have shown their roadie hill climbing pedigree but they give me priority on the descents. So with reckless abandon I do my best to keep up with Doug as we thread our way at an accelerating pace despite the sketchy traction in the dust. The trail flows on and as we eat up the meters, my confidence grows and it feels great to relentlessly push the bike harder, skipping in, out, around and over the rocks. The Granit Chef (my mt bike by Rose) was light and playfully responsive yet maintained its sure footed composure taking in its stride everything I throw at it. Despite the Fox 32 fork making it somewhat less brutish than other bikes I’ve ridden in anger, its predicable finesse easily makes up for this.

Finally we pull up and everyone files in all smiles. Doug leads us into some lesser known paths in the area, a few he’s cut himself for bike use. They’re steeper and heavily wooded and with limited use the shrubs crowd in on you. Plus things start getting wet. This made spotting a line through the increasingly technical rumble and keeping the speed up that bit more interesting. The group was split so Doug could secure a lunch seating by racing ahead. Again, trying to stay on Doug’s rear tyre, it was a blast ripping down the old school, wild and woolly single tracks. The bike kept its cool as and my lines became more creative even in the face of some seriously step sections that pushed the limits of my abilities.

We make our way down the tracks and pop out near Lezo for a great lunch at a local café-bar before taking the ferry across to the western edge of the Mount Ulia ridge. The ascent was wooded with sticky rich soil and similar to the coast route, had steep sections littered with chunks of sandstone for added difficultly. And as before I was on the redline in the humidity and heat dragging my sorry self up.

Doug takes us through the better trails for bikes that area has on offer. No jumps, drops, north shore shinnies or manicured berms just rugged and raw single track weaving up and down the mountain side. The day ends as my day before, bombing down the alleyway onto the beach at Gros.

The second day we headed inland with the promise of more challenging and gravity flavoured riding. Given the size of the group however, shuttle lifts in the van weren’t an option. We started off in a thick ancient forest with rich soil and a steady root infested trail. After a bit we popped out on to an exposed ridgeline and proceeded to blast down this at wrap 7. Like the day before the single track was perfect for aggressive trail bikes; no twisting groomed turns or kickers but a flat out, high speed, dusty trail laced with enticing clusters of rock and gravel to test reflexes, line choice, and commitment. If you can use such a verb, we “Jedied” down that trail.

5 minutes to go time

We were well in the Basque back country and Doug led us down trails maintained and known to only a few riders. Heading back into the think forest we followed an old jeep track cut wide and deep into the shale and rock laden terrain. Similar to a water slide, but for bikes, this made for an ongoing bowled ditch carpeted in decaying material and loose blocky rocks. Turn after walled turn we zigzagged down the wild and ungroomed track, the bike skipping and skidding all over the place while I played with the moss covered lip. The speed and ruggedness of the slope really tested the bike and I’d have to say combined with its unique flow and challenging turns, this trail was the highlight of my Basque riding trip.

Pimped out SC Nomad as a mechanical is dealt with

We had to ride back up to where the van dropped us and this involved a good 40 minute uphill slog on the hot tarmac. Again, I found myself abandoned by the peloton with a one way ticket to struggle town. My long sleeve jersey, heavy shorts, knee guards, back pack, and the high-twenty degree heat didn’t help. Finally I made it up and after a wise-man’s lecture in broken Spainglish on the merits of Lycra for extended hill climbing I treat myself to a liberal dose of fresh mountain water from a cool spring. A quick re-fuel and we pushed on. We dipped and climbed the tarmac across the mountain range, a few times pushing the far side of 60km/h.

Doug took us to the start of a trail he personally cut from the hills. The thin red ribbon of fresh loose soil zipped down through the lightly wooded forest. We negotiated tight, off the back of the seat switchbacks and also wide accelerating bends pitched down the face of the slope. A few times the front tyre threatened to wash out in the soft underdeveloped turns. As we descended the thickening vegetation started to get up close and personal so that several additional degree of commitment were needed to swiftly thread the tree trunks and deal with log crossings – the off-camber kind you approach a little too fast and hope you pull off a clean bunny-hop.

Eventually we linked up to an established walking trail to follow a small rift in the mountain down out of the woods. This consisted of greasy clay and wet slick rocks for some tricky drops and oblique rock gardens. Plus a few foaming creek crossings for good measure. The treacherous conditions sorted the brave and skilled from group and I think Doug was the only rider not to walk down the most aggressive sections.

As the group emerged into the late afternoon sun there was a fair amount of mud and blood to show for moments of poor judgement. Fortunately it was nothing more than superficial damage and everyone one was grinning. We wrapped up the day, the last for the group’s trip, with a late lunch and cold drinks at a local café familiar with Doug and his riding tours.

I took the train back to SS utterly exhausted but buzzing from that magic combination pushing man and machine to their limits. Now I was fully pumped for our next riding adventure – big mountain riding down the ski fields of the French Alps!

Photos from Greek Island Tour

Selected photos from our package tour of the Greek islands - blue water cruising, fun, sun and friends.

(I found out you can just click on the the first pic then scroll through full size images)