The Pan-Eurasian Bike Trip

The romanticism evoked by travel is a curious feeling. It comes and goes like the flicker of a firefly in the night.  

After months on the road, the lofty feelings travel inspires begin feeling intangible. Oftentimes, in the rain and cold, a journey seems best experienced in retrospect, leafing through a personal journal chronicling your adventure at home in bed, or, better yet, listening to tales of other weary travelers warming themselves by a glowing hearth.   

At the end of an epic adventure, it is easy to forget why you wanted to come here. In the moment, you can only focus on climbing the next mountain or wiggling your toes to keep them from going numb. Other thoughts are distracting. Unnecessary. It seems the true experience can only be felt after the fact.  

UNINTENTIONAL MATADORS  

Three weeks ago, my cycling partner Ellery's friend, and former boss, Adrian Cyr flew to Europe and completed our journey with us. A man in his early 50s, who had never done a trip like this, Adrian's strength and determination continually amazed me.   

Ellery and I have been on the road for over eight months. Our muscles are sore and our minds exhausted from the daily routine of navigating new roads and finding food and shelter. Adrian's presence resuscitated our spirits.The excitement he feels riding through a windy storm, or daily confronting new obstacles, is contagious. It reminds me why I'm here.   

With Adrian we rode the Camino de Santiago, a series of hiking trails and dirt roads, across northern Spain. The Camino was formed during the Middle Ages by pilgrims walking to the holy city of Santiago. Today, both religious zealots and adventurers still cross the famous road on foot and bicycle. Along the way, they sleep in affordable hostels serving modern day pilgrims.  

After a day of riding in freezing rain, we seek refuge in a small pilgrim hostel. That night, the kind owner invites us to warm ourselves around his fireplace and serves us homemade liqueurs. Adrian begins strumming a guitar laying in the corner and together we sing songs and talk. As the hands of a nearby clock near the immensity of time near midnight, only Adrian and I remain around the waning firelight.   

"I'm tired of riding in wind and rain each day," I admit. "I'll be happy when this is over."  

"You know, there is an amazing sense of freedom one feels going somewhere new each day," Adrian muses, "and I think you'll really miss that when you go home."  
"I just hope that I can incorporate that sense of exploration, the open mindedness to new challenges and confronting the unknown that life on a bicycle demands, into how I interact with the world after we finish," I say.  

The following afternoon we cycle through small farming towns. Rural Spain often resembles the Europe of yesteryore. Riding through one hamlet, I pass an old toothless woman chatting with a farmer holding a wooden pitchfork. The stand next to a flock of sheep.   It has rained sporadically all day and we're dressed accordingly. By coincidence, we all wear red rain jackets. They blaze behind us like rebel flags in the wind.  

I ride in the rear of our group as we descend a hill into a small valley. We pass by Holstein cows behind a stone wall. In the distance, I see a large young bull stampeding toward us nostrils flaring.  

'He can't jump that stone wall,' I think, 'or it would be higher.'  

Riding up the hill's other side, the bulls runs at a gallop, jumps the wall with ease, and lands between me and Adrian. His hooves hitting the ground sound like a mousetrap snapping shut. Ellery and Adrian are already halfway up the hill. The bull ambles towards them, throwing his weight around like an angry arms dealer.  

I get off my bike. Looking ahead, I see a farmer jump lickety-split from his home. When the enraged bull sees his master, he turns back towards me. My red rain poncho billows behind me in the wind like the hood of a cobra, making me a unintentional matador. The bull charges me.   

With bicycle in hand, I run back to an open gate in the pasture, and use my bike to barricade the entrance. With my bike as a shield, I crouch behind it, bracing myself for the attack. The bull runs toward me, then turns away at the last minute. I watch the farmer chase after it through my bike's spokes.   

IDIOTS AND HEROES

"The hero feeling is pretty weak," wrote National Geographic writer Mark Jenkins in his book 'Off The Map', an account of his epic bicycle tour across the Soviet Union in 1989. During this bike trip's difficult moments, Jenkins' quote seems like the best way of describing my emotions.

One year ago, Ellery and I made business cards containing our website address above the caption 'The Idiots' to raise awareness about our trip. The card's title was a literary reference to Russian writer Dostoevsky's famous novel The Idiot and an acknowledgment that you'd have to be crazy to cycle across Siberia. We handed them out randomly on the street hoping the self-effacing humor would intrigue people to visit our website.

On April 15th 2009, we began our trip from a beach on the Sea of Japan in Vladivostok, Russia. A swarm of Russian television crews awaited us on the coast to film us ceremoniously dipping our rear tires into the Pacific.

That morning, I had neglected to securely close the rubber pouch of water in my Camelbak backpack. It suddenly exploded and soaked my clothes. I shivered in the cold Russian wind. Camera crews shoved microphones in my face before I had a chance to change.

On bicycle, the U.S. Consul General in Vladivostok escorted us out of the city with a small motorcade in tow. I followed them wet and miserable. Finally, I stopped to dump out the remaining water in my backpack. A camera crew filming me for a piece that aired that night on Russian national news stopped their car to capture the moment.

"Mr. Bridges, how do you feel right now?" A young journalist asked holding a microphone to my face.

"I'm cold," I answered teeth chattering. "Really, really cold."

Later that day, a van of Russian army officers stopped to cheer us on.

"You're heroes," one of them said.

A long bicycle tour is the experience of a lifetime. Family and friends frequently write you congratulatory emails. Countless cars pass beeping horns to cheer you on. But after countless months riding in rain, sleet and snow, I must confess, the hero feeling is pretty weak.

Oftentimes, you don't feel like a hero at all. You just feel like an idiot.

THE LONGEST MILE

We left the Spanish city of Santiago on a freezing morning. In three days, a handful of family and friends would arrive at our ending destination, the city of Porto, Portugal, 150 miles away on the Atlantic Coast. We left regretting we'd chosen to end in Portugal; the Spanish Atlantic coast lay just fifty miles west.

We ride south avoiding the coast on a road cutting through a series of green mountains. Nobody wants to see the Atlantic until we reach Portugal.

That afternoon, the road we follow merged with a major highway that did not permit cyclists forcing us to take a detour onto a coastal peninsula. Coming up a long hill, the Atlantic Ocean came into view and Adrian stopped riding.

"My leg has hurt all day," he admits, "I can't ride any further."

We push our bikes up the hill. Adrian begins limping as we reached the top.

"Ohhh," he says, "it's so bad I can't walk now."

We coast down the hill into a small fishing village and get a hotel. Laying in bed, Adrian winces in pain just trying to extend his leg.

"My Spanish is good enough to translate if you want to see a doctor," I offer.

"Let's see how it feels tomorrow," he says.

That night I took a long walk on the beach. We hadn't made it Portugal, but the sounds of surf crashing on the beach whispered an undeniable fact: we had successfully ridden our bicycles across Asia and Europe.

The next morning Adrian's leg still hurt too badly to continue. We take a ferry off the peninsula to the city of Vigo, then push our bikes to the bus station. We hoped to get a ride somewhere just north of Porto, and, if Adrian felt up to it, ride into the city the next morning.

"Sorry Sir, it is against Portuguese law to bring a bicycle on a bus," the ticket seller at the bus station told me, "I can't sell you a ticket."

Desperate, I spend hours in the station, explaining our plight to bus drivers. Finally one took pity on us.

"I could get in a lot of trouble for doing this," a kind Portuguese bus driver told us, "but your friend is injured, so I'll make an exception. Put your bikes on the bus quick," he said, "first stop is Porto."

Two weeks ago, during a snow storm on the Camino de Santiago, I met an old French pilgrim standing in a thick drift of snow.

"I can't continue in this snow," he said. "I've walked the Camino several times before, and sometimes, you just know when its over. I'm going home."

The next morning, Ellery and I roll our bikes out of a small hotel in downtown Porto. As Ellery hopped on his bike, the cable connecting to his bike's derailleur suddenly snapped, became caught in the wheel, and bent the bike frame so that the rear wheel locked. The bicycle was destroyed.

We looked at each other and almost laughed.

"You just know when its over," we both say in unison.

Ellery piled his bike into a taxi and I rode across town alone to the beach house our family and friends had rented. It took me nearly two hours maneuvering through gridlocked traffic, becoming lost in labyrinthine city streets, and lifting my bike over guardrails onto major highways to continue.

Finally, darkness fell and I found myself on a lonely road leading out to a long peninsula. In the distance, huge breakers crashed upon the beach. I stopped for a moment to inhale the ocean's scents, then looked down at my bicycle's odometer. It read 9,513 miles traveled, just slightly shorter than the 10,000 we originally estimated this trip would cover.

Then I round a final corner and see it: Ellery and his parents, my mother, Adrian and his family. They've all been waiting outside and worrying about me. I run up and throw my arms around the loved ones I haven't seen in nearly a year.

We never bother triumphantly dipping our front tires into the Atlantic as planned. Ultimately, those ego-boosting moments of victory are not important. What matters on a trip like this is what you've seen, experienced and learned about yourself.

And that's how this trip ends. With one injured rider, a broken bicycle, and a group of happy friends madly embracing on the beach.

I hug the people I'm overjoyed to see and hear waves washing up on the shore. And try to wrap my mind around a seemingly incomprehensible truth: It's over. We made it. It's over.

Over the mountainous terrain of northern Spain, a 500 mile dirt road resembling a four-wheeler track or logging road in rural Maine snakes westwards. This is the Camino de Santiago, a path developed during the Middle Ages by Christian pilgrims walking to the Spanish holy city of Santiago de Compostela.  

Each year thousands still traverse this historically famous road on foot and bicycle for religious or recreational purposes. Old buildings along the Camino, once serving as pilgrim hospitals helping those making the dangerous voyage, have today been converted into volunteer-run hostels where modern day pilgrims can sleep for just several dollars a night.    For three weeks, we have slowly ridden the Camino on bicycles. The well-marked trail and affordable accommodations are perfect for weary travelers nearing the end of an arduous journey.  

From One Road To Another  

Over eight months ago, my friend Ellery and I embarked on a bicycle trip from the Sea of Japan. Our goal was to ride an estimated 10,000 miles across Asia and Europe, from the Pacific to Atlantic Oceans, transporting ourselves by only using clean energy. On specially designed touring bicycles, we attached small solar panels to power our electronic equipment.

Our journey began riding on unpaved roads through remote parts of Siberia. Small villages in the region rarely even had running water. Traveling there felt like stepping back in time centuries ago.  

From the Pacific Ocean, we have ridden 9,400 miles. Yet the dirt pathways of the Camino create the illusion that we have gone nowhere; the Camino greatly resembles the rough Siberian roads where our adventure began.  

On bicycles, we have slowly traveled from the undeveloped to developed world. Western Europe seems like modern civilization's forefront and Siberia its tail end. The Camino is a vestige of mankind's past, of a time without paved roads and automobiles. My experiences in Siberia allow me to imagine what the world that pilgrims who once walked through here was like.  

After traveling from one side of the earth to another, I find myself on a dirt road again. The Camino may resemble Siberian roads, but it frequently meets small towns with internet cafes, large grocery stores, and comfy hotels. Far away, unpaved roads in Siberia pass through rural villages whose residents seldom even have access to indoor plumbing.  

The different ways of life present on a dirt road in Siberia, and another in Spain, make me realize the word modernity means something very different throughout our planet.  

Possible Impossibilities  

Four days ago, a rare winter snow storm covered northern Spain in heavy ice and snow. Unlike Maine, winter infrastructure, like large snow plows, does not exist here. The storm has made the Camino and most roads impassable.

For months we've pushed through rain, hail, and billowing headwinds, changed over eighty flat tires, solved innumerable bike problems, become lost countless times, and daily pushed our fatigued bodies onwards. On dirt roads in Siberia, we often rode ten hours just to cover fifty miles. Finally we are close to finishing the longest most northerly bicycle trip on earth.    

Now the ultimate obstacle confronts us: snowy weather that has rendered our bikes useless and stranded us in a small town called Carrion de los Condes.  

On a cold morning, I push my bike out of Carrion de los Condes to see if the main roads are passable yet. An old man soon runs up behind me.   

"Riding your bike here is too dangerous," he says pulling me back, "I won't let you continue."  

'I'll push my bike and walk then,' I think stubbornly while returning to the cafe where my friends await my report about the road conditions. Snow soon works its way under the Gore-Tex booties covering my bike shoes. They are soaking wet when I reach the cafe, evidence that I don't have the gear to continue this trip on foot through the snow.  

Waiting days for the roads to clear is not an option either because I now have a plane ticket home in several weeks. It becomes brutally obvious we must seek an alternative form of transportation.   

That afternoon we board a bus with several other dejected pilgrims forced to cut out part of their walk. Hoary snow-covered landscape speeds by through the bus window. Spain commonly evokes visions of palm trees, sun, and warm temperatures. But gazing out the window after this rare storm, it looks like I'm back in New England.  

I feel defeated. Sitting on the bus, I recall admonitions of those who were skeptical we could complete this trip entirely by bicycle. I embarked on this adventure wanting to prove that impossible sounding things are possible, to inspire others to take risks. It seems there is nothing to do now save accept my limitations.  

We spend several days traveling 120 miles west on a series of buses, stopping to check out road conditions. Deep within the mountains, we reach Ponferrada, a Camino town where the snow fell days earlier. The Camino is impassable, but several inches of the main road's shoulder are visible next to icy drifts of snow. There is just barely enough space to safely ride a bicycle.  

Accepting the obvious dangers of riding these mountain roads, we decide to continue the following morning.  

The End Is The Beginning  

I awake in a pilgrim hostel at dawn. It is only 20F outside and not much warmer inside this building. Its going to be a rough day.  

Cycling in below freezing temperatures, you don't move your entire body enough to keep your extremities from going numb. On the bike, I futilely wiggle my toes and fingers to stop them from losing feeling. The cold winter wind is irascible, belligerent; like a wildfire racing over the earth, I cannot stop it.   In these conditions, you can only ride around eight miles without stopping in small cafes to warm up. Soon as you return outside, you find yourself already anticipating the next stop.  

This morning, every cafe we pass is closed. My feet are so cold it is painful. We have to get inside quick. To my right, I spot a stray dog that died in the cold last night; another dog lays curled around its frozen body.    

Finally, we arrive at an open cafe. We warm up and then ride ten miles to the next one in the small town of Villafranca.  

"My feet are so cold it hurts," Ellery says as we walk inside, "I'm not sure I can go on."   

In Villafranca the mighty mountain of O Cebreiro, one of the longest climbs of the Camino, looms before us. The road leads up nearly 2,000 feet above sea level then down a steep descent. For over an hour, we sit in a cafe waiting for midday temperatures to rise before setting off.    

We spend that afternoon climbing the mountain then descend twelve miles down the other side. Nothing is more enjoyable on a bicycle than the freedom of gliding down a mountain. But doing so in winter weather, your body quickly becomes so cold, the experience is more tortuous than thrilling.    

Coming down O Cebreiro, the snows recede behind us as we enter the Spanish province of Galicia, gateway to a new climatic zone of green hills and eucalyptus trees. Rainy weather systems racing across the nearby Atlantic warm the region and inundate it with precipitation. Galicians frequently remind visitors of the saying that, 'there are only sixty sunny days here each year.'

For three days, we ride through Galicia over the summits of tall mountains where higher altitudes cause the incessant rain to freeze and become slush. I descend them slowly, constantly braking to avoid slipping on black ice while the wind whips sheets of rain against my face.  

Late in the third day, the rain stops. Dark clouds recede into the distance and the sun appears. We all cheer at our good fortune and stop for lunch in a grove of eucalyptus.  

Three years ago, my friend Ellery and I left college for a semester to walk the Camino de Santiago. The trip took us thirty-two days on foot. Upon reaching Galicia, we had walked almost 500 miles. Suddenly, a 10,000 mile bicycle trip seemed feasible.   

That afternoon, we arrive in Santiago de Compostela under sunny skies. We enter the city on a muddy dirt road, just as we began this adventure eight months ago in Siberia. Riding into the city's central square, the dramatic heights of the cathedral housing the remains of the apostle St. James, which so many pilgrims over time have journeyed to, rises before us.    

Reaching Santiago again is surreal; sitting in a cafe here three years ago, Ellery and I vowed to do a bike trip across Eurasia from the Pacific to Atlantic coasts. For me, Santiago will always seem like both the end and beginning of this bike trip.  

But we have still not finished yet.

Next stop: the Atlantic Ocean.

The cold.

On an early winter's morning it seems to poke at the seams and zippers of your jacket like a ravenous dog pawing at its owners door trying to get in.

Riding a bicycle, the cold becomes magnified. Gliding down a steep hill or along a flat plain, cold air rushes against you numbing your body. On a bicycle, you legs pump the pedals, but your feet remain immobile and can quickly lose feeling. Wearing three or even four pairs of socks doesn't help. The cold inevitably sneaks within your clothing like a deadly virus that numbs your extremities.  

Winter's Arrival  

It is winter in Europe. For the last week, we have slowly followed the Camino de Santiago, a series of hiking trails and dirt roads, across northern Spain.

The Camino was initially formed by pilgrims during the Middle Ages walking to the city of Santiago de Compostela where the remains of St. James were buried. To this day the original road still exists. Each year thousands of new age pilgrims, devout Christians and adventurers alike, still traverse the ancient road by foot or bicycle. Pilgrims collect stamps from churches and the many cheap pilgrim hostels along the way in a small booklet obtained at the Camino's beginning in France. The stamps in the booklet serve as proof that a pilgrim has successfully completed the pilgrimage.  

We have traveled 9,150 miles since April. Last week Adrian Cyr, the former boss and friend of my cycling partner Ellery, flew to France and rented a bicycle to complete our journey with us. Since his arrival, we have enjoyed the luxury of going just thirty miles a day until his legs adjust to riding a bicycle laden with heavy gear. The sun has shown brightly each day since Adrian arrived, a welcome reprieve from the foul weather which inundates Europe this time of year.   

This morning everything changed. A cold fog hovered in the air as we set out. Several hours later, it lifted revealing dark storm clouds hovering over the looming mountain range running north of the Camino. I zipped my jacket up tightly to ward off the chill and watched as several stray snow flurries ominously settled on my jacket.

Today we ride through the Rioja region, a Spanish province renowned worldwide for the delicious wines produced here. Fields of grape vines cover the hillsides here growing in long rows that fall away into the distance like phalanxes of troops marching into battle. On a day this cold, we can only ride ten to fifteen miles before our extremities go numb and we must warm up in a small village cafe or bar. Inside we invariably encounter the same scene: a group of lively villagers socializing before a warm fireplace. A glass of the famous Rioja wine here often costs less than a dollar. It is the perfect conciliate for riding through such cold weather.   

By mid-afternoon the temperature plummets. In the small town of Canas, we find the local cafe for a wine break. Across the street is the Abbey of Santa Maria a tall stone building constructed in 1170 by the same order of nuns that still occupy it. The Abbey is one of countless beautiful old buildings of religious importance constructed near the Camino. After warming up in the cafe, an old Spanish man opens the Abbey's door and let's us inside. The towering heights of the church within are lit by alabaster windows allowing light to pour into the wide hall. As we leave, the old man at the door stamps our pilgrim's passports with the Abbey's official stamp.  

We return into the cold and climb seven miles up a tall mountain then speed down the other side. I hit my breaks on and off so I don't go too fast downhill. It is so cold, I'm afraid of hitting a section of black ice and slipping.

It begins raining just as we arrive in the small town of Santo Domingo. We shiver from descending the mountain and are crestfallen when we find the town's pilgrim hostel closed for renovation. Luckily, there is also a hotel nearby. We gratefully retreat inside to a warm shower and comfy bed.  

Out In The Cold  

"Enjoy your trip," the waitress of a small cafe tells us the next morning. "I hope you don't have too much snow," she adds.  

Like a taut rope pulled so tight it suddenly snaps, her cautionary words cause my optimism that we might have good weather today dissipate instantaneously. The chance of precipitation today is 100% and our likelihood of seeing snow will only increase; today the Camino leaves the mountains behind and ascends to the Meseta, an expanse of high altitude plains in northern Spain.  

Following the road west, a light snow begins falling. Today, we will ride over one last mountain range before embarking on the Meseta. We must stop at a cafe to warm up every ten minutes then continue before the snow on the mountain accumulates too much for us to cross it.  

This morning we ride on a road beside the Camino. Suddenly we pass by a young pilgrim walking. She yells as we pass by and I stop as my friends proceed ahead. It is a young Polish girl I met in France one week ago as she was just starting out on the Camino.  

"I can't believe I was ahead of you walking!" she exclaims.  

"I'm truly impressed, you are fast," I say.  

"I walked almost 30 miles yesterday," she boasts.  

"Sorry, I can't stay long," I say interjecting, "the snow is falling quick and we have a mountain to cross."  

"Snow! What snow?" she says with a sarcastic overconfidence.  

"Nice to see you again!" I say before leaving, "be careful out there."  

Although the snow continues to fall, trucks have salted the roads enough that it does not stick. After many frequent cafe breaks, we make it over the mountains and descend to the city of Burgos.  

The following morning it is so cold it hurts. We enter the flat plains of the Meseta and a chilling wind bears down upon us. We can't ride more than several miles without our feet going numb.  

That afternoon, the sun comes out and the earth slowly warms up. For the first time today, it is warm enough that I can focus on the beauty of the land we pass through instead of wiggling my toes to prevent them from going numb. To my right, a beautiful stretch of snow-capped mountains rises above this high altitude plain. Adrian and I stop for a moment to admire the scene.  

"It is so silent here," Adrian says observing the flat land and listening to the wind, "so beautiful."  

Stopped In Their Tracks  

The following morning, we walk outside of our small hostel and discover it has begun snowing intensely. The streets are white and snow flakes furiously cascade upon the earth like falling stars. After talking it over, we decide to wait a day for conditions to improve. Snow falls all day, but it is too warm to stick. After a restful day we fall asleep with an optimistic outlook for tomorrow.  

Overnight four inches of snow accumulates upon the earth. The Spanish rarely see this much snow. Nobody plows the roads. The streets are pure chaos. We push our bikes outside, but it is impossible for us to ride through the slushy mess. Our tires just spin and slip.   Determinedly, I push my bike through the slush to the outskirts of town hoping to find the main road plowed.

On my way, I pass a small group of kids having a snowball fight. Last winter, far away in Siberia, I remember passing a similar group of Russian children playing in the snow. The Spanish kids here make me consider how alike humans are all over the world, how similarly we behave in certain situations.

On the town's outskirts, I find the main roads also covered in snow. I keep walking in the vain hope that the road ahead might improve before returning back to the small cafe where my friends wait for my report about the conditions ahead. Suddenly an old Spanish man runs after me.  

"Look," he says putting his hand on my shoulder, "you can't ride a bicycle on this road, not here and not further, do you hear me? I won't let you continue," he says leading me back. "It is too dangerous for pilgrims."  

I glance back at the impassable roads. More snow is expected in the next few days. For a moment it seems like bad winter weather may not allow us to continue. We are stopped in our tracks. 

Eight months ago, my friend Ellery and I embarked on a trip from the Sea of Japan with the intention of riding bicycles across Asia and Europe. I had done almost no training and was a very inexperienced cyclist. The first day we only went 20 miles. It was the longest distance I had ridden on a bike in my life.

Like anything one does with dedication, riding a bicycle quickly becomes easier. In just several weeks my muscles became used to the intense physical activity each day. To date we have ridden 9,000 miles.

I once believed that a bike trip this long could only be done in one's youth. Now I know that the exact opposite is true.

Shipwrecked Sailors

One early morning last June, in eastern Siberia, we spotted another cyclist riding towards from the opposite direction on a bike loaded with gear. Nobody can quite understand what you have been through better than another cyclist on a long tour. Bumping into one in the vast land of Central Asia is like the chance meeting of two shipwrecked sailors bobbing on the ocean.

Ellery and I both stopped excitedly. To our surprise, the rider was a Russian woman in her early 60's.

"I'm riding from Moscow to Kamchatka," she said.

Kamchatka is a large and isolated volcanic peninsula in northeastern Russia that extends into the Pacific Ocean. Having become an expert in Russian geography, I could instantly calculate the logistics of her trip: a 5,000 mile journey, often on unpaved roads, across remote areas of northern Asia, just barely possible to complete before the early arrival of another Siberian winter. The thought of doing that trip alone almost made me shiver.

"I ride 50 miles every day," she explained, "then I wheel my bike into the woods and sleep in my tent." She spoke with a carefree voice. An exuberant sense of youthful energy seemed to twinkle in her eyes and shine in her long silvery hair.

Two months later, we met another cyclist traveling on a recumbent bike. We stopped as an old shirtless French man, with a bronzed chest and thick head of white hair, rolled off his bike and greeted us smiling.

"I've come 4,000 miles from Paris to here in just over two months," he explained.

We were awed by his speed.

"I'm riding to Australia," he said.

Throughout this trip, Ellery and I have casually thrown out invitations to friends and family interested in renting a bicycle and joining us for a leg of the journey. Last summer, Ellery's former boss, Adrian Cyr, a resident of Cape Cod, expressed interest in riding across Spain.

"But I am in my 50's and have never ridden a bike before," Adrian wrote Ellery fearfully.

"You'll be a perfect fit then," Ellery replied.

Away In The Mountains

In the small town of St. Jean Pied de Port, France a small dirt road leads westwards out of town. It looks like a small path used to herd goats and sheep between pastures. But it is actually the beginning of the Camino de Santiago, or, in English, The Way of Saint James, arguably one of the most important roads in Europe.

The Camino de Santiago is a series of hiking trails, walking paths and dirt roads starting in southern France and snaking across northern Spain. The Camino ends in the holy city of Santiago de Compostela where the remains of the apostle Saint James are buried.

The Camino and the Saint share a common history. According to historical evidence, after Christ's crucifixion, St. James sailed to northwestern Spain, then believed to be the end of the known world, and attempted to convert the pagan population to Christianity. When St. James returned to Jerusalem, he was executed in 42 A.D. Following his death, St. James' disciples brought his body back to Spain for burial in the city of Santiago de Compostela.

During the religious fervor of the Middle Ages, miracles associated with the relics of the Saint preserved in Santiago, inspired thousands of Christians to make a pilgrimage to the city on foot. Thousands made the trip to Santiago. The pilgrimage across Spain even rivaled those to Rome and Jerusalem.

The foot prints of the first pilgrims carved a road into the earth which exists to this day. Each year, thousands of avid hikers and devout Christians alike, walk all or part of the Camino. Centuries ago, pilgrim hospitals sprung up in towns and cities along the way to help pilgrims. Today these hospitals have been converted into hostels, run by volunteers, where, for just several dollars, pilgrims can get a bed for the night.

Over three years ago, Ellery, myself, and another friend walked the 500 mile Camino from St. Jean to Santiago. The journey took 32 days. We finished it inspired. After walking 500 miles, we began to think a 10,000 mile bicycle trip might be feasible.

Now we have returned to bike the route with a third rider, my friend Ellery's former boss Adrian, who got the nerve to actually join us and realize a lifelong dream of following the Camino. After spending a night in the local pilgrim hostel in St. Jean, we met Adrian in the town center the next morning. This is the first time Ellery and I have seen a familiar face in nine months.

Twenty-Two Caminos

On a bright December morning, we pick up Adrian's rented bicycle, help him pack, and prepare to set off. For months Adrian has anticipated this moment. His excitement is nearly palpable. We begin by following a small cobblestone road out of town. In just an hour of riding, we cross the border into Spain.

The first day of the Camino goes up a steep mountain pass through the last section of the Pyrenees mountains. We spend all day slowly ascending a giant mountain leading up towards the sky. For months, Adrian has trained on a bike for this. Watching him climb the mountain, I recall my first sluggish days of the trip. He is over twice my age and I am impressed by his strength.

We reach the mountain top at dusk. Small drifts of snow line the roadside. A short descent brings us to the small Spanish town of Roncesvalles. There we seek refuge in a pilgrim hostel. A local volunteer leads us into an ancient stone building adjacent to a church housing sets of modest bunk beds.

The Camino has long stimulated local economies. In each town along the way, local cafes offer cheap set meals to feed the influx of pilgrims. In Roncesvalles, we dine in a small tavern where an amiable waitress sits us at a table with several pilgrims. Soon a communal meal of hot soup, trout, pie and wine is served.

The pilgrims we eat with are inspiring. Tonight we meet a young French man who has walked from Paris on foot and another who started out for Santiago from Switzerland. To my right, a Spaniard named Alfonso suddenly takes a seat.

"I have walked the Camino three times," he explains. "I have ten days off now, so I'm hoping to walk a third of it and start from the point I leave off from next year."

The following morning, we awake in a cramped pilgrim hostel and proceed down the trail. Bicycle travel on the Camino has its advantages and limitations. The trail is meant for walkers and is often so steep we must stop and push our bikes up hills. Nevertheless, we can still cover more ground in a day than walking which gives us more time to visit cultural sites.

One afternoon, we stop to explore a monastery constructed in the 10th century by monks who aided pilgrims. Near the monastery, is a local wine bodega with its own pilgrim wine fountain (a small spigot outside the bodega where pilgrims can pour wine to fortify them for the long journey ahead). We arrive at the wine fountain after a long day of pushing the bikes. Sitting in a circle, tired and dirty, we pass a water bottle of wine around in a circle. Adrian leans back with a satisfied air.

"This is how I always imagined it," he says.

That night at the local pilgrim hostel, we meet a French woman named Yvette in her 70's.

"I have walked the Camino twenty-two times," she tells us matter-of-factly. "Several years ago, I walked nearly 4,000 miles from France to Jerusalem.

The next morning is cold and foggy. I pass Yvette then stop on a hill to observe her. Her religious devotion amazes me. She walks slow and determinedly.

"Twenty-two times," I say to myself watching this elderly woman nimbly walk up a rocky hillside with a huge backpack slung across her back. "Now, I really believe anything is possible."

It is a rare day when my bicycle's small speedometer shows that I am riding faster than the posted speed limit for vehicles. Today is one of those days. I clutch my bike's handlebars and race down mountains at thrilling speeds. Before my eyes lays the frosty peaks of the Pyrenees mountains in southern France.  

The Pyrenees are a towering mountain range which straddles the border between France and Spain. For over a month, my friend Ellery and I have ridden nearly every day in foul weather against brutal headwinds. But during the last few days, rising hillsides and valleys, the first signs of nearby mountains, have finally mitigated the unmerciful French winds.   

For months I have anticipated arriving in the Pyrenees with a mix of unbridled excitement and a tinge of anxiety. The Pyrenees are an amazing landmark in our trip. Over the mountains lays the last stretch of our journey towards the Atlantic Ocean. But we are unsure what sort of weather we may encounter crossing these mountains. Weather reports have shown snow falling in this region for weeks. 

This morning, we departed from a small French town on a winding road leading up our first big ascent into the mountains. A month has passed since we traversed our last big stretch of mountains in the Czech Republic. Riding up many steep hills on a bicycle requires using slightly different muscles while pedaling. I feel very fatigued after ascending the first hill. But I know that in a day my legs will adjust to climbing again and this will feel normal.

For now, I slowly go up each climb lost in fierce concentration. As I ride, a group of men on road bikes in full cycling gear suddenly pass me on the left. They speed by and yell hello. I am focusing so intently on moving the heavy bike up the next hill, I nearly scream in surprise.

In recent days, everything around me has changed. In the backyards of French homes we pass, palm and even banana trees are common sights. Trees with glossy evergreen leaves that do not fall in autumn and holly grow wild by the roadside. The changing plant life is evidence that we have finally ridden far enough south into a more temperate climate. But climbing up the Pyrenees, this new ecological zone disappears before me eyes. At the crest of the first mountain, a deep valley of pine trees extends below and rises in the distance towards jagged snow capped peaks. The palm trees and holly now lay behind us.

Coming down the mountain I arrive in a small town. Here I observe that all road signs are written in both French and Euskara, the ancient language of the Basque people. This section of the northern Pyrenees is a gateway into the Basque Country, a group of small provinces in southwestern France and northeastern Spain considered the home of the Basque people.  

Basques are an ethnic group often considered to be some of Europe's most early inhabitants. Today,the Basque Country is an area of contention and rich cultural importance. The Basque language is considered the oldest remaining language still spoken in Western Europe; its roots cannot be traced back to any other language. But the Basque country is also known for the terrorist acts of the separatist group ETA, who have long fought to create an independent Basque state apart from France and Spain. But despite ETA's distant presence, the pace of life here seems pacifistic and mellow.  

Much of the Basque country is an expanse of stunning mountains and clear streams flowing between small hamlets. On green hillsides, flocks of horned goats and sheep graze freely. In the distance, they appear like bunches of white and black marbles carelessly abandoned on the floor of a child's playroom. I frequently stop to admire the view and enjoy the mountain silence. The Basque country feels peaceful beyond words.

I visited the Basque country several times during college while studying abroad for a semester in Spain. Now, after traveling 8,900 miles on a  bicycle from Asia, this is the first time I have been anywhere on this trip that seems familiar. It is a strange and comforting feeling.

I have fond memories near here of meeting fun loving Basques proud of their unique cultural heritage. Once, in the Spanish city of Pamplona, a group of Basques invited a friend and I to drink wine with them at a restaurant. They proceeded to merrily entertain us by singing traditional Basque songs in Euskara.

Interactions with strangers are one of the most rewarding aspects of travel. The past month has been a laborious journey across France in bad weather. Oftentimes, meeting new people is the only thing which keeps me pedaling.

Just yesterday, I stopped for lunch alone in a small town. While sitting on the sidewalk outside a bakery and making a gigantic sandwich, a jovial man rode past me on a rickety old bicycle. He did a double take when he saw me.

Moments later, my sandwich was half-eaten and he returned. He excitedly pointed towards my bicycle, then asked me where I was from.   

"You're American," he began, "sorry, I do not speak English...Spanish?," he asked.

"Yes, I speak Spanish," I replied smiling and surprised.

Quickly, he began speaking to me in broken Spanish, asking the typical questions of where I am coming from and going to.

"Where are you from?" I asked interjecting.

"Poland," he said smiling brightly.

"Poland! I rode through Poland," I replied, "it is a wonderful country. Do you live in France now?" I asked.

"I am a mason," he answered, speaking in a jumbled mixture of French and Spanish as the conversation became more complex. "Before I work long time in Madrid, in Spain. But I go wherever I can find work, France, Spain anywhere."

For a moment, we just stared at each other, unable to continue the conversation because we could not speak a common language well together. Then his eyes moved to my bicycle. The same look of excited jealousy overtook him that I have seen in so many others when they see my bike and imagine the freedom of the vagabond life.

"I want to give you something before I go," the Polish man said in French. Then, despite my protests, he handed me one Euro, the currency used throughout the European Union, and rode away.  

"Remember Poland!" he yelled as he left, smiling and sticking his fingers up in the form of a peace sign. His good natured personality and the gesture of giving a gift to a stranger reminded me of how many great experiences I have briefly shared with strangers traveling in Eastern Europe.    

Sometimes, while riding my bike, I try to recall as many faces of the people I have met and ridden by on this trip as I can. This afternoon, the image of an old indigenous Buryat man on horseback I rode by in Siberia, just north of Mongolia, morphs with a group of Turkish immigrants working on a road in Ukraine, then melts into the scene of Dutch school children on bicycles riding by my side in Holland. The faces of the unaccountable people I have interacted with over time swirl around my head like fall leaves in a blustery wind.   

Near the end of our first afternoon through the Pyrenees, I pass a small Basque man by the roadside. He nods and smiles as I pass by. It is a simple acknowledgment between two strangers of each other's presence. The courteous act of wordlessly saying hello that I have repeated thousands of times on this trip.  

I nod back and smile to this lone stranger on the horizon. The mountains before me are beautiful and the feeling of riding a bike down them electrifying. But these fleeting interactions between strangers are the moments I treasure most.  

"We go straight on route 167," my friend Ellery says looking over a large map of France unfolded on his bike's handlebars, "then we turn onto another road towards the small city Melle."   "Sounds good," I reply, groggily only half-listening. The words 'go straight' and 'Melle' are all that sinks into my memory, hastily filed away within a disorderly mental index of thoughts, preoccupations and dreams.

  It is a grey early morning in central France near the city of Poitiers. Ellery leads the way riding in front. French roads often contain numerous rotaries instead of intersections. At each one, I look ahead to Ellery and take the same turns he does. I love rotaries. My bike glides around the asphalt circles like a water skipper atop a pond's surface.     In the first town we reach, I stop for a red light, and my friend continues out of sight ahead. At the town's end, I reach another rotary, and suddenly realize I have carelessly forgotten where we are going. I stare at the rotary confusedly like a blind man looking for a cane in the dark. A road called 167 veers to the left, but a vague memory tells me to go straight. I'm unsure which option to choose.

  We have traveled 8,500 miles and rarely gotten seriously lost or separated. Instead of navigating with a modern GPS system, we rely on road maps and asking directions. We only carry one map because frequently buying them can become expensive. Ellery rides faster than me, so he navigates, riding in front, and waits for me at rotaries when we switch routes. If a problem occurs, we can communicate with cell phones.   Even the best organizational systems are subject to sudden demise. Ellery's phone is currently out of minutes, and for days we have not passed through a town large enough to put money on it. But if I send him a message, I know he will come back for me.

I send him a message, but it does not work. Instantly, I realize that I've carelessly forgotten to check my balance and am out of money too. There is no way for us to communicate.     For a moment, I stare at the rotary trying to link vague memories from my conversation with Ellery this morning into coherent fact.

'Should I go on route 167 or stay straight,' I ask myself.

On a gamble, I decide to go straight.
In the next small town I reach, Ellery is not waiting at the first rotary as I expected. I have ridden almost 15 miles and know he never goes this long without stopping and waiting for me to catch up. It is obvious that my friend and I are separated.

The Road To Maille

I am horribly lost, and, to make matters worse, it is Sunday, the day in Western Europe where all shops outside of major cities close. The dismal possibility that I won't be able to buy a map anywhere dawns upon me.    

With no better option, I cruise through the town in hopes of finding a shop miraculously open. Instead I just hit another rotary. There a sign points left to a large town called Maille. I smile, mistaking Maille, for Melle, the town we set out for this morning. I turn left towards Maille believing that I am headed for the right town.

"If I can ride fast enough," I think, "hopefully I will rejoin the road Ellery is on and meet him as he's riding back to find me."   As I continue towards the wrong town, Ellery has long since turned back in search of me.   "That's odd," he thinks upon returning to the first town we passed through, "I glanced back and saw Levi very close to this spot."   He rides back down the road a ways to see if I broke down.   I ride 10 miles through a downpour. My heart sinks when I soon reach a small town called Maille. I know the town I want to reach is at least 40 miles away, so it is clear I mistook Maille for the similar sounding name of another town.

Now I am more lost than ever.   

"Do You Have A Map?'"

On a Sunday morning Maille looks like a ghost town. Everyone has retreated indoors for a day of rest and time spent with family. The town is devoid of life.

While searching for people, I spot a woman unloading recyclables from her car into a public recycling bin.
I stop and use my horrible French to try and ask her for a map but she doesn't understand me. Desperate, I try saying the word 'map' in English, Spanish, and Russian, all the languages I can say it in.   

"Map, mapa, karta?" I try. She shakes her head confusedly.

"Map, mapa, karta?" I say once more miming the act of holding a map.

 "Ahhh, une carte," she says, pronouncing carte like kahht. "No, I don't have one. I'm sorry," she says.

I thank her and leave, my spirits reinvigorated. The woman may have not have had a map, but by inadvertently teaching me the word carte she has given me the tool I need to find my way out of this situation.     On the outskirts of Maille, I ride past a farmhouse where an old farmer is walking to his car. I turn into his muddy driveway.  

"Excuse me, do you have a kaahht?" I ask him in my labored French.

 "Oui, oui," he says, pulling out a map from his glove compartment. "Where do you want to go?" he asks.

My eyes quickly scan the map he hands me until I at last find the name of the town my memory forgot.

"Melle," I utter triumphantly when I spot it.

Just Forty More Miles

The kind farmer offers to give me the map. I thank him and use it to plot a direct course for Melle. By getting lost, I have gone almost thirty miles out of my way. Melle is forty more miles away from here. I have just barely enough time to get there before sunset.

I ride hard against the wind and find my way onto route 167, the road Ellery and I were on this morning. In an hour, I come to a small town and decide to continue alone, hoping my friend is somewhere ahead.

Meanwhile, Ellery has ridden all the way back to the point where he last saw me and then returned to the rotary where I first became lost. He waits for a long time in case I return from whatever wrong direction I left in.

At last, hoping that I have found my way towards Melle and am somewhere ahead, he gets on his bike and begins sprinting, riding as fast as possible, to catch me.  

We have ridden in cold rain and against fierce winds for a month. Sometimes the weather barely enables us to cover 30 miles in a day. We are nearing the trip's end, but the closer we get, the harder it is to continue.  

That afternoon, I push on against brutal headwinds without stopping . Rain and even hail pour down upon me. The hail feels like needles pricking your skin as it hits my eyes. I put on sunglasses to protect them. Cold seems to burrow under my rain jacket into my skin.  

"I hate this!" I yell at the sky in a moment of frustration and fatigue.

At dusk, I ride into Melle and see Ellery's bike parked outside a small cafe. I am overjoyed to see him. We examine our maps together and learn that we each took a different road to Melle.  

"The hail storm made me so cold that my palms turned purple," Ellery tells me. "I came into this cafe to warm up, changed out of my rain gear, and ordered a glass of wine hoping you would later arrive."  

That night we sleep in a warm hotel. The following afternoon, we ride through yet another soaking rain storm. But it is warmer today and I begin reflecting on what I have seen during this trip: the vast expanses of Asia and the fascinating differences between Eastern and Western Europe. Despite this trip's physical difficulties, I still feel so fortunate that I have had the ability to travel, observe many different ways of life, and gain so many valuable insights about the world we inhabit.    

Torrents of cold rain fall upon me and the wind blows wildly against my face.  

"We are so lucky to be here," I remind myself overwhelmed by this truth, "so lucky to be here."

From the Pacific coast of Asia, we have traveled westwards for seven months on a series of back roads, highways, bike paths, and country lanes. Behind us now lays 8,200 miles of intersecting roads that stretch across the earth like a shadow cast from a leafless tree upon the ground. The road before me, and the ones to my back, each fade away in the distance towards far away lands with different foods, languages and customs. Follow one far enough and anything can happen. The only certainty is that multiple cultures will challenge you to live differently.

Each day on this foreign bike tour we must complete the tasks of finding food, shelter and communicating in foreign languages. Throughout this journey, each country we pass through forces us to alter how we do these things.

Before embarking on this adventure, we prepared by taking a six week Russian course at the Far Eastern National University in Vladivostok, Russia. Our newly acquired language skills served us well; we spent the first two months following rough, often unpaved, roads between small Siberian towns where nobody spoke English.

In Vladivostok, many Russians were skeptical of how we would survive in Siberia.

"What will you eat?" they asked. "I hope you can hunt," they said heckling us.
 
After visiting several small Russian villages, I understood the joke. Village producties, or small stores, in Russia do not contain a lot of food because most Siberians grow crops and raise livestock. Inside a typical producty an inexhaustible supply of vodka and cigarettes fills most of the store shelves. A young woman stands behind a counter next to an abacus used to calculate change for customers. There is little food save bags of rice, flour, pasta and unaccountable old canned goods. When making a purchase, the cashier slides the balls of the abacus rapidly from one side to the other. They slam against the abacus like an eight ball sinking into the pocket of a pool table.

Making a nutritious meal from a producty proved difficult, so we began eating almost exclusively at small locally run cafes on the side of the Russian Federal Highway. Cafes were often the only way for us to find healthy food in rural Russia. Inside, one could fill up on vegetable soups, pasta dishes, meat, eggs, and even salads for just several dollars.

Russian cafes are multi-functional for cyclists. After our meal, we would ask the owners for permission to sleep outside in our tents. For months, we spent almost every night camping in the backyards of Russian families.

In Siberia, I noticed how food and language interconnect while traveling. The first time I glanced at a cafe menu in Russian, my vocabulary was so limited, that I just observed the meaningless jargon before me with a helpless stare. Months later, my Russian had improved enough that I could even read menus handwritten in horrible penmanship tacked onto walls of the roughest Siberian canteens. I knew how to order salads without heaps of mayonnaise (a Russian staple) and ask how much vegetables cost at local markets. Language enabled me to eat better.

Months later, we crossed into Poland where a new culture forced us to reconsider how we would live while traveling each day. The cafe culture died away, expensive restaurants dominating roadside stops. Supermarkets in each town with a wide variety of affordable food replaced Russian and Ukrainian producties. Communication became difficult, and I often found myself talking only with people who could speak Russian or English. The land became more populated, woods disappeared, and camp spots became harder to find.

Now we have entered France where it is illegal to camp anywhere besides designated camp grounds which are mainly closed in December. Farmland sectioned off with barbed wire fences dominates the landscape. Intense rain has reduced the fields to quagmires. Sometimes in the distance, I spot a small patch of woods where one could hide a tent. But getting there would often require hauling my bike over barbed wire, sneaking onto some one's property, and trudging through mud for a mile or more.

Foul weather and lack of camping space have now pushed our bike trip indoors each night. We daily search for an affordable hotel, quitting early if we find a good deal. To make up for the expense of lodgings, I eat exclusively from supermarkets and bakeries.

Retreating indoors each night has failed to civilize the crazy vagabonds on bicycles. I have begun referring to Ellery and I as 'the hotel hobos.' Each night we sit down to a massive indoor picnic. To avoid making a mess, we eat over plastic bags because we do not carry plates.

One night, I watch my friend Ellery making a tuna sandwich. The merino wool baselayer he wears has seen so much use on this trip it is now threadbare and full of holes. A scraggly beard hangs from his face. His appearance suggests that tonight he should be passing a bottle of port between a group of bums sitting around a camp fire in a California rail yard. He devours the sandwich, stopping to wipe his bushy moustache, with the look of an ideal hotel hobo.

France might be the perfect country for hotel hobos like ourselves. Every town contains a boulangerie, or bakery, where cash registers replaces abacuses. In a typical boulangerie, pastries and baguettes, freshly baked each day, are sold for roughly seventy-five cents. In markets, brie and fresh mozzarella often cost just a dollar. Good wines here are also dirt cheap. After a long day battling wind and rain, a cyclist can retreat inside and live the hobo life quite affordably.

In France sleeping and eating are easy. Unlike Russia, my biggest problem here is communicating.

"Don't speak English to French people," a Belgian friend recommended to us before we entered France. "Try speaking French, even if you can't. They will see you are foreign and reply in English," he explained.

I have tried my best to follow this advice. Very little of the French I studied in high school remains in my memory. But after a week here, random French words, numbers, and even some verbs have mysteriously resurfaced. I remember just enough to understand prices, ask directions, and hold simple conversations.

But to my dismay, French people generally seem endeared by my pathetic attempts to speak their language and they regularly just reply to me in French. Oftentimes, I think that the French are often unfairly stereotyped as rude. By just making an effort to speak French, I have found the people here to be some of the most amiable, helpful and charmingly quirky folk I have encountered on this trip.
 
These days, I ride down the road with several brie sandwiches tucked within my panniers for lunch. I feel a mixed sense of loving French culture and hating how it limits our bike tour. Riding across the country, past the muddy fields and treeless spaces, I catch myself missing the limitless forests in Siberia and the freedom of being able to stop anywhere and ask a stranger permission to sleep on their land, and knowing the answer will be 'yes.'

'We are helpless victims of the culture we live in,' I think hopelessly while stopping for lunch, 'forced to behave in accordance with the norms and rules of the world around us.'

The crispy baguette and the creamy brie melt together in my mouth like a fresh bun hot from the oven. Being victimized never tasted so good.

Early Winter Winds That Sweep Across Vast Expanses of French Farmland Prove To Be The Most Formidable Obstacle In 8,000 Of Cycling

For eleven days in a row we have ridden directly against ceaseless headwinds blowing 30 MPH or faster from the southwest. The billowing wind first bore down upon us while riding through Belgium and intensified as we crossed into France. Current weather conditions make bicycle travel nearly impossible. The wind is ferocious, belligerent, and inexhaustible.

Riding against wind this strong would be best described as pedaling a bicycle up a mountain peak all day.The gale blows upon us with such temerity that I must pedal hard even going down steep hills just to keep the bike moving. I rarely shift gears because the inexhaustible winds make cycling downhill just as difficult as going up. Terrain is meaningless here. On a bicycle, these winds make any surface feel like the highest mountain.

The capricious gale often gusts in different directions that forcefully hit our sides like an enraged ram butting his head against a barn door. It can suddenly blow hard enough in one direction to nearly jerk the bike's handlebars from my grasp. Sporadic wind gusts make me dangerously swerve from side to side into oncoming traffic or towards the ditch. Over time, I have learned how to balance my body differently to hold the handlebars steadier during heavy winds. But I move so slow that, at times, riding a bicycle through northern France in November seems virtually impossible. 

During the first months of this trip, my riding partner Ellery and I would anticipate celebrating milestones like riding our first 1,000 miles or cycling into a new time zone. Now we are so involved in the riding each day that we rarely even stop to acknowledge these moments.

We arrive in France and pedal our 8,000th mile on the same day. I ride out of Belgium without stopping and pass by closed down border patrol facilities. Each building has long since been boarded up and abandoned after the enactment of the open borders policy between EU countries. A great feeling of accomplishment beams within me upon entering France. But merely riding in the chaotic wind requires so much concentration that I barely have time to notice we have entered a new country.

For several days, we slowly plod away through northern France heading southwest. Rolling hills and great expanses of plateau dominate the French countryside here. We grind doggedly across flat plateau and crawl against the wind up and down small hills. At times the road dips into miniature valleys where tiny French farm towns appear in the folds of the earth like a daddylonglegs crouched in a corner. 

The numerous small towns we now ride through are our only respite from the unmerciful wind. The collections of small farm houses are just enough to shield us from the wind so we can ride freely for several minutes. Leaving town, the pernicious breeze bears down upon us again. I scan the horizon for church steeples to estimate when the next wind break will come.

Throughout this trip, headwinds have proved one of our biggest adversaries. Until France, the roughest wind we encountered was crossing the steppe, or flat prairie land, in Central Asia. Fierce headwinds also struck near the Sea of Japan in Eastern Russia and while cycling through vast wheat fields in Ukraine. But in 8,000 miles, the relentless November winds that speed off nearby oceans and race across interior France are the strongest we have encountered yet.

Last spring, I received an email from a Canadian cyclist named Damian Waugh who found our website online and wrote saying how much he enjoyed following the trip. The previous year, Waugh and his wife had cycled from Harbin, China (near Beijing) to Paris in just six months. Waugh had also battled the wind just south of our route across the Siberian steppe through the flat plains of Kazakhstan. I wrote him back asking what to expect. "The wind blows stronger on some days than others," he replied, "but sometimes it is so bad, you just have to pack it in early."

During one of our first days in France, Waugh's words echo in my head. The winds blows intently against my body with wild gusts that feel like a shock wave emitted by the very collapse of the firmament above.

I grip the handlebars with white knuckles, trying to hold the bike steady, but the wind gusts with such fury that it pushes me off the road several times. The small cycle computer on my bicycle reads just 10 MPH. Pedaling with all my strength, I can barely move my bike. I watch the speedometer fall from 10 MPH to 6 as the wicked breeze blows harder . The number drops to 3 MPH as a dark rain storm moves overhead. That day, it takes hours just to ride thirty miles to the first town where we decide to 'pack it in early' and spend the night.

During this trip, I have often been frustrated by the fact that I spend most of my time riding a bicycle through the fantastic countries we pass through instead of stopping more, going to museums and soaking up culture. The French wind has slowed us down so much, that we must ride short exhausting distances everyday to finish our trip on time. Fortunately, it is so tiring, that we often stop riding by 3PM which provides plenty of opportunities for getting stranded in and exploring interesting places.

During the past week, we holed up in the town of Chartes near Paris and spent the afternoon exploring the town's stunning cathedral often famed for having the most beautiful stained glass windows in the world. The following day, a powerful wind and rain storm arrived. We only made it twenty-four miles out of Chartes to the small town of Illiers Combray where the famous writer Marcel Proust once lived and spent much of his life. Today Proust's name still adorns many buildings and streets in Illiers Combray. A museum dedicated to the writer rests in the town center.

I explore Illiers that afternoon and take refuge from the rain in the town's old stone cathedral. Inside, I find myself alone in a wide hall where intricate stained glass windows lead up to a wooden ceiling entirely hand painted with representations of biblical scenes. Colorful wooden gargoyles with mischievous faces jut out near the supporting beams which crisscross the ceiling. I sit alone in the old cathedral for a bit feeling lucky just to be there.

The following morning, we continue against maniacal winds that recklessly tear across the earth like a suicide bomber speeding towards an enemy target. I know in the first five minutes on the bike that we won't go far today.

There is no doubt in my mind now that France will be the hardest section of this trip. We are tired and road weary, but there is no other option save doggedly moving forward each day. Riding here is exhausting, and for the first time since we started this trip, my leg muscles, specially trained after seven month of cycling, are actually sore from going so hard against the wind for so long.

Riding along that afternoon, another thing that Waugh told me suddenly enters my head. "In many ways, the end of our trip was the hardest part," he had said. A gust of shrieking wind suddenly blows me off the road.

I look at the immensity of land still before me and understand exactly what he meant.

For over four months, I have witnessed a seemingly endless autumn. After cycling 7,700 miles through Asia and Europe, the blazing red leaves and crisp early mornings of fall have followed us across the northern hemisphere.

Fall is a time of year I both love and loathe. The harvest of fresh vegetables, beautiful foliage and warm days with perfect temperatures have always made autumn rank in my mind as one of nature's most wondrous gifts. But fall is also the prelude to my least favorite season winter. Knowing that the beautiful days of  fall won't last long makes autumn's arrival always seem bittersweet.

This year fall has been different. It started early and still hasn't ended. For years, I've dreamed of living in eternal autumn. It seems that wish has come true.

My beloved season appeared unexpectedly one morning in late July. My friend Ellery and I were riding along a lonely road through central Siberia when we noticed a patch of golden leaves on a green tree. Several miles later we spotted another tree beginning to turn color. Then another.

It was a hot summer day and the trees appeared out of place. At first we supposed they were suffering from a disease. But the following day we pedaled past more golden-leafed trees. By week's end, the morning's became so cold you could see your breath and we began passing whole forests of trees with red-yellow leaves. It was inevitable: fall was coming.

At extreme northern latitudes, seasonal changes occur quickly. In most of Russia, there is nearly 24 hours of daylight during the summer solstice. The rapid increase of light during this time of year causes plants to grow quickly. Oftentimes flowers and green grass sprout by partially frozen rivers as soon as the snow melts. Plants begin growing long before the thaw has ended.

By July 1st Siberian forests abound with lush plant life and afternoon temperatures can reach 100 degrees or more. But a sweltering Russian summer is short lived. In just several weeks, the earth rotates ever so slightly on its axis causing the nights to become colder and the trees to change color long before August has even begun.

It is November now. After reaching Moscow in mid-September, we rode southwest to escape winter's imminent arrival. Traveling southwards, we inadvertently followed the movement of autumn. Cycling across Ukraine and Poland, I watched once more as the green trees by the roadside slowly metamorphosed into fiery red-leafed beauties.

While some people follow hot summer weather each year, migrating from Maine to Florida, or Japan to Australia, I prefer to run with the cool nights and beautiful days of fall. As cold weather sets in, it is easy enough to hop a flight to Mexico and ride out the winter on the beach. Existing in an eternal fall requires that you live like a nomad following autumn wherever it wanders. Bicycle travel proves perfect for such an endeavor; you move just fast enough that you can follow autumn's footsteps without getting too far ahead.

One week ago, we began riding due north on flat lands through Germany to avoid going over the Alps. After months of seeing leaves changing color, we have finally moved far enough north to enjoy the peak of fall foliage.

After riding across Germany, we entered Holland on a blustery afternoon. Anyone who enjoys long bicycle rides on cool fall days would find perfection here.  A small bike path by the road leads from Germany into Holland. On the other side of the border, the bike path widens out to the size of a main road that leads from town to town. Only cyclists can ride here.

The network of bike paths in Holland is so extensive that one can literally go anywhere safely on a bicycle. At each intersection, well-marked signs just for cyclists direct riders to nearby towns and cities. Each day I share the paths with hundreds of riders: old men and women, gossiping school children riding home from class, and mothers on bikes equipped with secondary seats, or trailers, in the back where one or two small children sit. The astounding number of people riding bicycles here is an amazing example of how people will use infrastructure, like bike paths, when they have easy access to it.

Riding across Holland, bike paths lead us through cities and towns, vast farm land, small sections of woods and beside wide canals full of small boats and mallard ducks bobbing on the water's edge. 

On our second day in Holland, we ride on a small trail which passes through a deep forest between two towns. Tree limbs thick with ochre leaves rise high above me like the underside of a terra cotta roof. We follow the path up the gradual incline of a long hill and then race down the other side. Leaves have begun to fall now and they cover the forest floor and bike path in brilliant orange. With all the leaves it is nearly impossible to tell where the path is, but I keep going faster and faster. The sound of my rubber tires hitting wet leaves sounds delicious to my ears. At times I am not even sure if I am on the trail as I glide over a sea of red leaves. The experience is like water skiing, fast and unpredictable.

While the scenery and availability of bike paths make cycling across Holland a pleasure, the weather complicates our experience. November in Maine is often characterized by cloudy skies and rain. Even though Holland enjoys a slightly warmer climate than New England, so the leaves remain on the trees far longer, cloudy rainy weather now dominates the skies here too. For nearly a month, we have not seen the sun and each day it is no longer a question of if it might rain, but when.

Most of Holland consists of farmland. Fields have long since been harvested and the constant rain has reduced them to giant mud pits. On rare occasions, we pass through a small section of woods, but we mainly ride from farm to farm and village to village. There are no longer places for us to camp without hauling our bikes over fences and trudging through muddy fields on someone's property. Western Europe is so populated, it is almost impossible to be inconspicuous.

Because camping is difficult here, we now spend most nights in cheap hotels. There is little more than nine hours of daylight, so we must ride fast each day through the wind and the rain to both cover a good distance and arrive in towns large enough to have affordable accommodations. Although the bike paths in Holland are amazing, each day feels more like a race to make it somewhere than a leisurely cruise.

The aspects of fall I once disliked now seem more appealing. Fall is a time when we lose daylight and retreat inside more. When we begin reading books on the couch under warm blankets, learn to carve pumpkins, and make pies with fruit grown in summer. On a fall bike trip, I may be able to admire beautiful foliage for months, but I spend most of my fall days now seeking shelter, trying to quickly get somewhere before dark and then searching for a reasonably priced place to stay. It seems to me now that one of the best parts of fall is becoming less extroverted and spending more time at home.

I love being outdoors and for years I have hated watching the daylight hours shorten during fall. These days, as I race down a back road or a bike path in late afternoon desperately trying to make it to the next town before dusk, I often think about how much I would like to be inside making dinner or reading a good book. How great it would be to not have to worry about the fact that it is becoming dark. Perhaps next year, when I spot that first rosy leaf upon a tree, I won't be depressed about the coming of winter, but excited that I have a place to sit inside and enjoy it.. 

A jovial crowd of Germans stands before me singing in a large dining room. The rich tones of their voices fill the spacious room with song. An older woman sits in a chair between the singers. She smiles so brightly that she positively beams.
 
From the Pacific coast of Asia, we have traveled 7,500 miles to Western Europe. My riding partner Ellery and I are currently cycling around the Alps through the flat lands of northern Germany. After six days of riding, we reached the city of Hamburg. There Ellery has a very good German friend named Arne who he met during college while studying for a semester in South Africa. For several days, Arne has graciously invited us into his apartment where we enjoyed the rare luxury of having a kitchen to cook in and place to do laundry for free.
 
Tonight we have taken a train outside of Hamburg to the small town where Arne grew up. His mother Anke meets us at the train station. With her two children long since moved out, Anke is selling the old family home and moving into a smaller apartment across town. This evening, she has invited friends and family to the old house for a big goodbye party.   

When we arrive at Arne's house a lively group of family and friends have already assembled inside. Merriment is in the air and the din of excited conversation and laughter can be heard outside in the driveway. Entering the house, a jubilant old woman offers us a hearty bowl of beef stew and a beer.
 
Anke's house is a beautiful old home with high ceilings and warm hardwood floors. Much of the furniture, appliances, and small decorative objects that give identity to a home have already been moved out into the new apartment. The house might seem stripped of its character, but the sound of close friends socializing fills it with that intimate 'lived in' feeling that takes decades to create.
 
After several hours, singing begins in the dining room. Ellery and I enter to see what is happening and find a beaming Anke sitting in a chair in the room's center. Friends and family encircling her hold sheet music and sing. Throughout the evening, I have curiously observed quirky Germans running around holding carrots, cucumbers, broccoli and other vegetables. I now see that these vegetable-bearing folk are singers. They hold their vegetables while singing, and, after each verse, one singer steps forth and places a vegetable in a large soup pot next to Anke with a comic air.

Ellery and I sway back and forth with the crowd who periodically erupts into laughter. After several verses, we join in humming the chorus with the others. Because neither Ellery or I speak German, the significance of the song and its humor are lost to us.  

"The soup is like a symbol," Arne explains after the song ends, "the vegetables in the soup pot represent the meaningful moments and memories we carry with us when we move away."  

For the past seven months, I have lived like a nomad and carried my home on a bicycle. Only recently have I felt the first pangs of desiring to stop moving each day, live in one place, and sleep in the same bed each night. When I look around Anke's house, I realize how special it is to have a home.  

In a sense, travelers are homeless creatures. And memories of the places we briefly inhabit are often carried simply as images in cameras. Watching Anke move about her house, I see vividly how our connection with the places we live in is more intimate and meaningful than with places we just pass through. We carry our memories of places where we lived internally. They float in our heads like vegetables in a warm stew.    

Nevertheless, it is possible there are some things about the world which only a nomad can believe.  

After the singing, Ellery and I talk with some younger Germans who speak English. They are eager to hear about our trip.  

"So you really rode a bicycle across Siberia?" They ask. "Were the people alright? Did you get robbed?"  

"The people were amazing," I respond. "Very friendly and helpful."  

"Really? I wouldn't have expected that," they say, "I would imagine that you would have met thieves."  

People almost always voice concerns about robbers when they imagine riding a bicycle across Russia. I have trouble comprehending why now. Across thousands of miles, we have met countless wonderful people who have helped, fed, and invited us into their homes. When traveling, we throw ourselves into many hypothetically dangerous situations. But over time, traveling has taught me an important truth: that people are generally good. After months on the road and putting yourself in harm's way, one soon sees that robbers and ax murderers are a minority. The earth is populated with good well-intentioned people.  

Tonight I am more sure of this than ever. As the party winds down, the crowd moves into the kitchen. There Anke and several old women have taken paper plates and wear them as hats. They dance around the room placing the silly hats on each guest's head. We form a massive conga line and parade through the entire house singing and saying goodbye to each room.  

"Thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home," I tell Anke the next morning hoping she can understand a tiny bit of English.  

After traveling for so long, I find myself tiring of dirty clothes and dreaming of stopping and one day making my own home somewhere. But for the meantime, my experiences with people along the way inspire me to continue.  

They also remind me of the important things I have learned while traveling: that folks everywhere like to have fun and the earth is made of many kind and amazing people. When I begin to create a home one day, those are the vegetables I will bring in my soup.