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This is the way to some tantalizing snippeties from "Three Wheels, Two Continents, One People" on a chapter by chapter basis. Click on the chapter to get the excerpts.

Please remember, I don't subscribe to the modus operandii of putting the best bits in here.  This ain't no Hollywood movie trailer!  When you get the book, you get the best bits...

That night I rolled into Dong Ha. (Dong Hoi was the previous night.) Little did I know as I hit the town that the events of that day were to provide me with one of my most moving stories. It all surrounds my beloved Essendon footy jumper. I suppose I carried it with me as a strange form of good luck charm; something I could wear if I really wanted to meet someone from home. It would certainly draw a comment from any Melbournian!
Earlier that day, I wore the sleeveless jumper because the winds from the sea had become cool. A little further on it began raining and when I saw a shop in the middle of nowhere, I decided to stop for lunch. The lady in the shop kindly allowed me to change in her kitchen, so I pulled off my wet jumper and shirt and put on the raincoat. Unfortunately, I left the jumper behind.
But it wasn't until the next morning, when I was packing to leave Dong Ha, that I came to the heart stopping conclusion I had lost it. Frantically I went out into the town, trying to find a motorbike for hire - you could hire the damn things everywhere, but not here in Dong Ha. I think I condemned this town to purgatory on many occasions. What could I do? Somewhere, about 50 km back, I hoped my jumper would be safe, but there was no way I would cycle back to get it. I decided to charge ahead for the next 70km into Hue and hire a motorbike, hoping like hell I could ride back 120km before daylight finished.
I'll transcribe the events straight from my diary:
"At 15:30 I hired a motorbike in Hue to take me to my beloved football jumper...I had no idea if I could find the place (made more difficult by the fact I would probably get there in the dark), if it (the jumper) would be there, if they would have given it away or sold it, if I would have to bribe them, if the bike would get there (100cc, well used, bad roads, no oil when hired) or even if I could get back. All I knew was I'd have to try. As it turned out everything augured well for a great experience. 240km, eight and a half hours, four stops (two for fuel, one for tea and my jumper, and one for a quiet time...and I was a happy man).
"Of course I found the place OK, with about 10 minutes of any light left at all, and my jumper was not only there, it was washed and waiting for me."
When I saw that old lady come out to greet me, as if she had known me forever, I knew I would always remember that moment. I am only sorry I didn't accept the kind offer to stay with her, her husband and three beautiful daughters. I had to get back to my booked hotel room. I bade my farewells. My nail biting night was about to begin.
Whoever wants a pure adrenaline rush for about three hours should hire a small, crappy motorbike and ride it 120km at night with a practically non-existent headlight (one shining straight up to the sky), on unlit, country roads in South East Asia. The combination of fear, exhilaration and expectation was almost lethal. I knew the road was bad, that I had tyres which could fit neatly into the common potholes, and that a huge "BANG" was imminent. I could only see things at the last moment with my pathetic, ill-directed light, and with about 30kms to go to Hue, my light blew out! Luckily, when I switched to low beam I had another filament.
These conditions made the road a good trigger for myocardial infarction. Dogs that barked at my heels the instant I saw them, bike riders with no lights (definitely the "norm"), walkers, insects and potholes all came upon me with virtually no notice, often while I was travelling at 40km/h! Add this to the impossibly inadequate milestones and things became just a little too crazy. Of the forty or so milestones I passed on the way, most had distances to some irrelevant places 600km away, 1200km away, 732km away, 1896km away (I kid you not!). Rarely was there a milepost for the next major or minor town. When they were of a sane distance, the sequences were often wrong. One sequence to Dong Ha went something like 50, 48, 57, 46, 45, 54, 40.... Go figure!! And I went to all this difficulty just for a footy jumper!

The bus ride was a funny affair. As I remember my bus trips through Asia and Europe, it was peculiar to Laos that when the bus passed through a village, it did so slowly, tooting to alert the locals to its presence. As the bus trip progressed, I began to wonder if the drivers were tooting to warn people they had a loony on the bus. I had started to believe the locals thought I was somewhat weird.
At one stop I saw a gum tree. Deciding I needed to smell that definitive smell of Australia, I leapt off the bus (to the bewilderment of the locals) and ran to the tree. I jumped up, grabbed a handful of leaves, scrunched them up and inhaled like a junkie. Walking slowly back to the bus, I sported a smile reminiscent of that seen when one relieves oneself! With most on the bus looking at me, I guessed they thought I was somewhat odd.
My fellow passengers became sure of my happy lunacy a few hours later when I started having fun with one of the kids. Everything I did, they watched, but they did so unobtrusively. They had watched as I had plunged my hand into a canister of sticky rice that everyone else was getting a dig at. They'd chuckle every time I got catapulted to the ceiling when we went over a big bump, because I sat on the back bench seat of the bus. They even noticed my face as food hawkers would swarm the bus at certain stops, trying to entice me with such delicacies as twelve skewered roasted beetles (mmmm....insect shish-kebabs.... "kebugs" maybe??) and chicken bits and pieces. (I later asked an English speaking Lao about how the 'kebugs' are eaten - whether whole or peeled - and he said "It's up to you"! ...Give me an icy-pole any day...)
But the real source of entertainment came from the live chickens. The poor things were crammed into cane baskets, then thrown like empty boxes into the aisle and stuffed behind seats. I'd look with a smile to the chooks and cluck gently, as the kids and their grandmothers would laugh embarrassingly at this moron who'd obviously lost all his mental faculties.
It was this experience which epitomized the Lao for me. I felt amongst friends. I didn't get ripped off when changing money. I got genuine smiles from people. They never hurried me. They weren't in-your-face. And when someone offered you something, they really wanted you to have it, no strings attached.

Phimai was next, 154km away, giving me enough time for another rest day. The last 50km or so were very memorable and are indelibly etched onto my brain.
I had stopped about 50km from Phimai to get supplies of food; water and rice were what I needed most. Looking at the sky and seeing the lightning in the remaining daylight told me I should be ready for rain, so out came the coat. I got back on the trike and began the last fifty kilometres. What a show it turned out to be.
Rain fell and lightning laced the dark, ominous sky whilst I rode along watching an electrifying display. Lightning seemed to flash continuously in a circle all around me - it seemed that the sky directly above me remained calm, but all the sky in every direction around me looked tumultuous. I was riding in a 'patch of calm'.
The highway sat raised about two metres above the huge surrounding basin. There was no appreciable rise in the land until way over near the horizon. There was little vegetation within about one to two kilometres from the road on either side of me, and this must have continued for forty kilometres. Effectively, I was the highest point of electrical contact within coo-ee. My little flags, pointing way up high, flitted in the breeze while I rode comfortably, feeling the weirdest sensation. On the one hand I thought my time could be up at any second; that a huge bolt of lightning would take me out. On the other hand I had this amazingly safe feeling, as though I was riding under protection and once again I felt the presence of God. Flashes would go off all around me - left, right, front and back every one or two seconds - but they were far enough away that the thunder was usually quite soft. This fearsome display of power seemed to be here for me alone. There were very few cars around (it must have been near dinner time) and I was awestruck by what I saw.

Fifteen rupees (US$0.30) bought me exactly two apples in the small bazaar before I commenced cycling. I was now skint, and had no idea how I would get the rest of the food for my energy requirements, until the border.
No sooner had I started pedalling than I knew today's cycling would be a complete bitch. Instantly, the road 'developed' to its horrendous worst. The puncture came after about 30km, and thankfully after I had made a rare side trip to see the Tansen Palace. The Palace was beautiful; the puncture wasn't. My tyre had been stabbed by a rock which was more like a razor blade than a small chunk of mountain.
That was it! The 'bundle' was dropped. Easy decision. Don't care. I'll sit and wait. Won't do anything else. No anger. I changed out of my clothes, into something clean and sat waiting for a truck to take me down the hill. The further the truck went, the better.
I caught a truck, but I had no money. By the time we reached Butwal, the last big town before the border, no mention of cash was made. The co-driver was a friendly bloke and we spent our time up on the goods carrier of the truck, laughing and making conversation like old friends. We got onto religion and he made the comment "Your God is easy?" That one's still got me puzzled. He also said, "Your God is jezzee." That had me more puzzled until the penny dropped and I said "ohh, Jesus." We both laughed more.
Butwal is to heat what toilet bowls are to bacteria; a haven for it. As we descended the mountains, the climate became hotter. The truck driver let me out in the middle of the main drag of Butwal. There was no way he was going to take money - it was his duty to a visitor.
I changed my puncture right there in the street. Dust, trucks, trucks, trucks and grease-covered men were the scenery. I was the entertainment, and my audience of 30 must have wondered what brought this half-human-half-fountain into their midst as I sweated like a soaker hose while I worked.
One fellow stepped forward, repeatedly offering me a Coke and I became mildly annoyed saying "No rupees" a couple of times. The poor bloke didn't want to sell it to me, he wanted to give it to me. His offer was followed by one of lunch; an offer which to this day had a distinct effect on my eating habits.
The offer of food came just as I'd finished repairing my puncture. The benefactor was a local politician, who had lost the recent election, who emphatically did not work for the 'commies', who claimed he knew Bob Simpson (the Australian cricket coach) and who looked the spitting image of Omar Sharif. He piled on the food. Six chapatis (hot, flat, unleavened breads about six inches round), veggie curries and chilies came out until I had to refuse. I said I liked ghee (a clarified butter which is really a thick rich oil for cooking) so he produced a small bowl-cum-plate which contained a very large mouthful of the stuff.
Good for the heart he said. I politely refused the instruction to drink it. He continued offering and I kept refusing, until he got so adamant that I eventually had to drink it.
I don't know how I kept my tummy contents down. For about five months afterwards, I couldn't stand the thought of any oil in my food, and to this day I get turned off anything with the smallest visible glob of oil or fat. That man did me a favour.

Uttar Pradesh, or Northern State, is one of the poorest states in the country, having a population of over 150 million. If it was to gain independence as a nation, it would be one of the ten most populous countries in the world. Gorakhpur epitomized the cramped population of this state. For the life of me, I cannot understand why I woke that next morning and considered staying.
My body had kept me awake with sickness all night. I was producing enough gas to be a serious economic threat to Kuwait. I woke three times that morning.
At 4am, my alarm woke me for an early start, but I drifted back to sleep - I was too weak to start cycling. Then, at 5am, the early morning Indian music (probably morning prayers) had begun and the LOUDspeaker was positioned just outside my window. Now my bowels were too weak for me to start cycling! I woke properly at 7am and just knew I wasn't going anywhere today.
However, by hotel checkout time my mind had changed. I couldn't stay in this town. Everywhere I looked was disease, filth and desperate people. My feelings were not surprising; I was seeing the world through eyes that were not used to this new experience - eyes that were not part of a healthy body. I had little idea where I would go; certainly less idea of whether I'd make it. I aimed for Kushinagar, 55km away, and didn't think about what would happen if I didn't make it. Once again the road was flat and good. I saw my first snake. Gandhi lookalikes were a dime a dozen.
Oases can be found in the oddest places
About ten kilometres before Kushinagar, I made a decision. I would stop in Kushinagar.
I expected little better than Gorakhpur. How wrong I was. Kushinagar, one of the four holy places of Buddhism (the Buddha died here) is a quiet town. There is little traffic. Gum trees stand tall, lining the main street which seems to house a number of incredibly friendly and calm people. Considering its significance to one of the world's great philosophies, it is surprisingly unaffected by tourism.
The friendly UPT (Uttar Pradesh Tourism) employee directed me to a Tibetan monastery; a place where I could find physical and mental shelter for a nominal donation. Little could I have known the refuge this would be for me. Immediately upon pulling into the grounds, I found peace. Without fuss I had a room, and no crowds gathered to play with the trike. The monks here were friendly, peaceful, genial and decent English speakers. They offered me chai and meals and were very personable. I will always be in debt to their kindness when I was frail.
After just one full day, I was gone. Leaving Kushinagar was difficult, but the good road condition softened the blow somewhat. I was happy to be cycling again, despite the fact that my tummy had reverted back to washing machine mode. On this day, I left the state of Uttar Pradesh to enter Bihar; an experience which was a little more difficult than I expected.

Let's move on to an astounding sequence of events over five nights. Incredible outpourings of hospitality well-and-truly cemented a notion I began to develop after my first few minutes in this country; a notion which told me that harm was the last thing in these people's minds and a notion which also told me that only unluckiness would bring us to grief in Pakistan, certainly in this province.
It began on night one. On our first night out of Lahore, we had ridden into the darkness. My light was working well, and we took advantage of the great conditions (clean air, good road, and clear sky) to put a few more kilometres behind us until tiredness would dictate a stop.
We came to a military police outpost; we decided to try sleeping in safety on the very well lit grassy area, right beside the gate-house of the barracks. Disciplined guards bearing large weapons seemed skeptical at first, but not threatening. Mark showed his passport to assert our 'validity' as Australians, and we made charades to tell them we wanted to sleep on their grass.
Within seconds, we were escorted through the front gates into the military grounds. Their friendliness was apparent - there seemed to be no surly faces here, and we felt like family.
As I began to lay my tarp just inside the gates, we were beckoned further into the grounds. They brought us to a basic tent and pulled out charpoys (wooden framed rope beds) for us to sleep on, and supplied us with pillows. They lent us their chappals (slip on shoes) to walk around with, and woke up an entire dormitory to lead us through to the showers where we could wash ourselves in comfort.
When we finally drifted off to sleep, unexpectedly refreshed, our assistance didn't stop there. We had fallen asleep while the air temperature was still warm outside. We needed no bedclothes. At 4am, one of the guards came over, gently woke us, and provided us with blankets. He considered that it was getting chilly, and from his actions he didn't want us catching cold. Then at 5am, a gentle breeze began to blow. We were woken gently again, and to our embarrassment and amazement we were moved into the tent, and the guards sleeping inside were moved out. Just for us - two itinerant beings who had never even dreamed of meeting a group of soldiers like this.

We rode into the night, with our final mountain descent of the day being exhilarating.
Seeing what we thought was a restaurant, we branched off the otobahn to an odd settlement of about ten buildings. There was a wide road up the middle that seemed to go nowhere. I stopped right in front of a large barking dog, waiting mindlessly, while Mark wandered off elsewhere. There seemed to be no life here.
As we turned to leave the settlement, we saw a large, well-lit porch, fronting what looked like a factory. We walked over to see if we could sleep here.
Two boys quickly emerged, due to the barking dogs I presume. As it turned out, this 'factory' was a Hezbollahi Guidance school; home of the much feared Hezbollah (Party of God) troops we have heard so many negatives about.
A bystander could only have guessed we were long-lost relatives. We were treated to fantastic hospitality. They took us inside, showed us to the showers, allowed us to sleep in their substantial prayer room (looking like a large, carpeted, unfurnished classroom) and fed us a delightful potato, tomato, bread and chay meal. They substantially compromised the amount of food they had for themselves, without showing the slightest inconvenience.
With an air of comedy, they pumped their fists into the air, saying "Down with the USA". We knew by this stage that it had nothing to do with American civilians. Had we been Americans, the same luxuries would have been showered upon us. The fact remains (and they will tell you so) that they hate the Godless governments of the West; Australian, British, American, Canadian, French, etc. They refer to the US Government when they chant their slogans, but they have managed to distinguish a people from a government completely.
Another interesting point is how we identified ourselves as Australians. When people looked somewhat uncertain after we tried to explain our nationality, we would instantly say "Skippy?" and do the 'kangaroo movements'. Most people knew Skippy from the TV. If they didn't know us by Skippy, then "All the Rivers Run" or "Against the Wind" would usually do the trick.
These Hezbollahi kids astonished me with their knowledge, recalling all the actors from the show - I would say the first name, they would provide the surname. Wow!

From here the day went really downhill in two ways; in topography and in difficulty. As I came down off the pass, the temperature became viciously cold, and it seemed that the black clouds were dropping as they came towards me. I had made up my mind to stop in Diyadin - even riding down steep-ish hills was difficult in this absurd headwind..
Alas, Diyadin was mileposted infrequently and signposted not at all, and consequently I must have passed right through. I didn't see it.
The sky was getting darker - it was mid afternoon, and I thought I would soon be in complete darkness. It was time to find somewhere, anywhere, to stop.
A small shop stood beside the road, and the owner seemed to call me over for çay. This tiny store housed a small assortment of goods, and with my limited funds, five choc-sandwich biscuits found their way into my possession. The kids there began pestering me for money, but I wasn't in the mood, so I sent them packing, forcefully but not unreasonably. With that, the owner would not let me sit inside, nor outside on a plank. He switched off his light, and when a car pulled up and the shop light went back on, I knew I was not welcome here at all. I had to push off.
From here, the conditions deteriorated badly. Five hundred metres down the road it became very cold and dark. I passed a police post and asked if there was anywhere I could stay. For some reason they were no help.
Within a kilometre further on, it began snowing. The cold got colder, the white got whiter, and scary became scarier, although amazingly I had little fear. I was so used to continuing in any conditions that I now didn't even think of going back. I would keep pushing until I found some sort of shelter.
My left arm was up, across my face, sheltering it from the cold. The snow and the ice thrown up by passing trucks, and general exposure, were nearly unbearable. I rode for ten kilometres in these conditions, barely able to see, and just hoping for some sort of shelter anywhere. There were very few trees (maybe ten in the ten kilometres) and they were not suitable for shelter. There were no dwellings or constructions of any sort. Visibility was becoming markedly low, and the uniformity of white covering everything transformed the landscape so quickly that my world had just become surreal. I laughed aloud to myself at one point about how ludicrously dangerous this was.
It was so damned cold, and water started dripping through my clothes and onto my skin. If I stopped for any longer than a few minutes, I would surely catch a severe cold, or even suffer hypothermia.
Even worse, cars and trucks were coming from everywhere, and I could not make out where I was on the road. There were no wheel tracks in the fresh snow, and I could only see the white road posts when I was very close to them. The bitumen faded away under the white carpet which was now concealing everything, and I had no idea of where the road edge was. This was compounded by my serious inability to make myself conspicuous. My lights would not work - the dynamo had frozen up and I had no rear flasher. Visibility was way down, and when a truck correctly overtook me on the left with a bit of a swerve, then a car overtook on the right, I knew that there was a grave chance of me being squished. I must have been riding in the middle of the road without knowing!
It is therefore not overstating the situation when I suggest that the most welcoming sight of my entire journey was the dwelling which eventually showed itself out of the white. This dwelling was actually a small chai shop, warmed by a great furnace of an oil heater. I snacked on chai and ekmek (bread) and bal (honey) - wax and all. I was safe, my mind could rest, and my body could recuperate for another cycling assault tomorrow.
No rest for the wicked
But just as if that Hellish drama wasn't enough for one day - just as if I was not meant to calm down for a night of rest - someone else arrived, heralding the beginning of my night's tumultuous adventure. The day was far from over.

After two days of rest, organizing messages and articles to home and absorbing the atmosphere, I climbed on the trike and pulled out another very satisfying effort. Back to back 200km rides was something I would never have expected, and certainly not planned.
The conditions early that day were terrible. As I rode west, snow, in thick flakes, bore in from the north, stinging my face as they landed. How I wished for my lost balaclava, still somewhere in Alexandroupoli! My ears stung savagely with the cold to the point that I thought they may become frost bitten. My stockman's hat did its best to keep me warm.
For well over an hour these conditions battered at my body, but there was no way that I would stop. As I turned south, the wind pulled in behind me and the clouds disappeared, giving me a fantastic afternoon. When I neared Larisa and turned west to head inland, the wind turned with me and I couldn't believe my luck. The overcast skies held out all day and I felt the conditions were sent from Heaven. Surely only Melbourne has changing weather like this?!
After turning inland, I approached a very interesting experience.
All day I had been passing a curious conglomeration of trucks, tractors and other agricultural vehicles lining the road. They crowded the overpass bridges and formed 'guards of honour' along the exit ramps to the highway. Some sort of agricultural strike was in progress, and it seemed that everyone was participating across the country (or at least the 150km I had covered).
As I rode out of a magnificent gorge, a huge demonstration crowd was blocking the road. Hundreds of men had gathered at a toll booth and had seemingly overtaken it. Cars were banked up everywhere. This was exciting. Trouble could be brewing.
If I rode straight through the pack I may take the spotlight away from the speaker. I smiled a devilish grin. I steeled, wondering if something bad would happen to me, but knowing I would be incredibly unlucky if something did!
Riding undeterred, I stayed on the road and sped right through the middle of the assembled throng. I did steal attention away from the speaker. An embarrassing feeling of mischief engulfed me. That was fun.
Countless men made noises at my passing, and just as I'd weaved my way past the blockade, a gunshot rang out right behind me.
"Fffff...", I started loudly as I pulled my head in, turtle fashion, but kept going. It was very surprising how cool I was about the whole event. I didn't bother to look back.
In the worst and most unlikely scenario, someone may have been taking shots at me. However, I didn't need to know that, and my brain told me so instantly. After all, I wasn't hit, I was getting further away, and there was not one person there who looked malicious as I passed anyway.

Rarely have I enjoyed an uphill so much as today. For one hundred kilometres the road went up with a gentle gradient, gradually getting steeper as the day progressed. The engineering feat of this highway was typical of the work the Romans pioneered, managing to pick a road of the steadiest gradient through the roughest terrain. Elevated roadways and tunnels were used to best effect, and I settled on a pace which served me wonderfully right up the mountain.
The sun was out, and the low speed meant I was warm enough to strip down to my tank top and enjoy some winter sun on my skin. It felt marvellous. It was something I did not expect in the depths of the winter.
Midnight Oil was helping foist me up the hill, and as I listened to anti-war, pro-reason songs such as "Read About It" and "Power and the Passion" two warplanes screamed overhead from West to East. Two more followed.
My mind started racing; I was incensed and jumping to all sorts of (probably incorrect) conclusions. Were the fighters bound for Iraq, to 'quash' the troubles between Turkey and the Kurds? Were they American?
All of my wonderful experiences in Turkey and Iran came flooding back and I started to think about the stupidity of war. Was this assault fed by politicians, who were fuelled by a fearful public, who were in turn 'educated' by a sensational media, eager to give the public a birds-eye view of the very worst of a country that is different from ours?
It annoyed me immensely that my first gut feeling was "Wow! Look at that!" when the only reason for these planes was to kill our 'brothers'. Why hadn't we learned our lessons from places like Gallipoli, where troops fought one another and killed one another, though they had no real or necessary animosity towards each other?
We paid a lot of lip service to Gallipoli and other carnage in our past wars, but clever psychologists and powerful people are good at presenting just enough information to keep us fearful of other countries. Admittedly, it isn't just the West that does this so well, but it pained me to think that we were an apathetic party to the problem. It also bothered me to think that we could enjoy displays of excellent engineering (these planes) without thinking about their real purpose.
Trying to calm down; trying to come down
After many kilometres my mind calmed down. I just hoped that one day people would really understand the peacefulness of a lot of the races we currently despise. I settled back into the job at hand.
Potenza was the main town near the peak of this Apennines road. After Potenza the road became an autostrada (motorway). There were about two kilometres of uphill remaining, before an uninterrupted descent of 60km! I completely ignored the sign showing a bike with a red circle around it, not allowing myself to believe that the police may throw me off this heavenly road.
Being on the autostrada was bad; having roadworks there was worse.
For about 750 metres up to the apex, the road was restricted to one lane. I had no option but to move into the middle of this remaining lane and power as hard as I could. Fifteen kilometres per hour was the best I could do; all manner of traffic bunched up behind me. I was extremely thankful that there was a slow truck behind me - the motorists could blame that lumbering vehicle for their abysmal speed.
When I finally reached the peak, the roof of Italy was firmly in twilight, the sky was blazing with orange, and I had Salerno firmly in my sights. Woohoo! Sixty kilometres of downhill! Is there anything better? Finally, I could swoop down to the coast and my only effort would be steering this jalopy to the bottom.
Bdmp...Bdmp...Bdmp... went the joins of the elevated motorway under my tyres. Twice overtaking trucks gave me a real high. The weighty bulk of luggage swayed like a leaden, lifeless metronome behind me. This caused me to swerve slowly at high speed, so I elected to move out and occupy a full lane on the road. Freedom was all mine. I basked in the moment.
Twenty kilometres into this glorious descent, the police decided to tail me and flash their lights. What did they want?
Once they pulled me over, they urgently beckoned me towards a parking bay. First they bitched about my lights. What was the problem here? I still don't know.
Then they gave me the impression that they didn't want me on the highway at night. What were they gibbering about?
Then it dawned. For all my denial, this was the autostrada, the autobahn, the freeway - pedal cyclists were not welcome. The officers tailed me all the way to the next exit (for Buccino) with their lights flashing until I left the road.
Hmmm...do I return once they are gone, and just resume my glide to the bottom? I decided against it - after all, I deliberately ignored the law, was caught, was lucky to avoid a fine, and now the best thing was to accept my very lenient punishment. Damn, damn, damn!

Climbs of over 12% gradient were not uncommon today. The stretch from Gap to La Mure was extremely intense, emotionally and physically. Vicious uphills and swooping downhills threw me back and forth from desperate need of energy to ecstasy. The hellish climb out of Gap (400 metres in four kilometres with a 12% rise for three unrelenting kilometres) on a fully laden trike was not easy.
The similarly steep, seemingly longer climb into La Mure was slightly easier because the sun had departed. The majesty of the mountains would have me sighing in appreciation at nearly every bend; new facets of this unforgiving topography would change the view remarkably.
As I charged down the hills, bugs would shoot into my eyes, seemingly embedding themselves on my retina, as I would struggle to recover the uninterrupted vision needed for 60+ km/h speeds. Damn those little bastards - I was without sunglasses when I really needed them. And how my eyes itched!
The mountains to my left were stunning, and the pink sunset crowning the outcrops in the distance brought a tear to the eye. The whole experience, complete with seventy km/h downhill sections, was one of intense beauty to look back on, and certainly a highlight of Europe. Yet the best of the day was to come.
By the time I rode into La Mure, I was pretty buggered. Some lovely, small, medieval towns had gone by, but I didn't notice much about them. I was sorely tempted to stay in La Mure, but after a brief interlude in the local pub I found enough energy to attempt the ride to Grenoble. Reckoning I would need another full day of rest, nothing would stop me reaching Grenoble tonight, not even massive hills.
Well, the massive hills were certainly there, but nowhere as bad as I had expected. Cycling was not only easy, but totally gorgeous and fun from here.
There were some very mild uphills to negotiate before a downhill of six kilometres and 12% decline; a decline which filled me with dread and awe. Dread at the thought of having to reclaim the altitude before reaching Grenoble, but awe at the spectacle. Never had I seen anything like it. From this road I could clearly see out to the massive valley which lay far below me. The mountains were dimly lit by the moonlight. The city that I thought was Grenoble, filled the valley floor with sparkling lights. It was like being in an aeroplane.
And if all that was not enough, lights of another small town glimmered well above the line of the horizon. It was a village atop the mountains. I was utterly mesmerized. I had lights way below me and way above me. The mountains must have been huge, and in the night they were stunning.
The soaring heights of the landscape took on a supernatural aspect and I slowed right down to absorb it all. It was an unprecedented, self-imposed denial of a speedy run down the slope.
By the time I had descended the hill, I was floating on air. The cycleways of Grenoble welcomed me from the outskirts, as if a red carpet had been laid into the centre of town. The route was flat all the way along the valley floor. Thankfully, there were no more hills to climb.

The poor road surface and condition flung the trike around a bit, and I was thankful to get back on the 'A' and 'B' roads.
However, all of the jolting must have caused the fatigue which finally resulted in the death of my luggage rack near Rochester. I couldn't believe it; less than fifty kilometres from London as the crow flies, the rack which had served me so well for over 16,000 kilometres had decided to break. The weight of all my luggage bore down onto the back wheel as the rack mounts gave way, and forced the trike to be completely unrideable. Thank goodness I wasn't in a rush.
Delicately, I perched the rack up on its broken mounts, and rode very slowly through the town until I found an engineering shop.
The proprietor was totally unhelpful after asking me to take all my luggage off the back and giving me a false hope that he could fix the problem. Everything seemed lost when he decided to refer me to a small place just down the road.
For fifteen minutes I sat in front of this second workshop, watching its proprietor talk to his posh customer. He made no sort of acknowledgement of my presence. It didn't look good.
However, he finally walked over to me, and after a few very amicable words, the man could not possibly have been more helpful. He put at my disposal a pop riveter, a box of rivets, his complete garage and a set of tools. After an hour and a half of handiwork, I produced and fitted two very functional brackets with the aid of a guillotine, scrap iron plate, a few very blunt drills and a vice. I nearly renamed Ivan (the proprietor) "Ivan the Great" - frequently, I let him know how happy he had made me. He insisted on giving his facilities and materials gratis, but I just had to give him a fiver for some beers at the end of the day.

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