Julie Gildred Goes to India for CAF

Link to My Photos -- Finally

Julie Gildred — Sun, 20 May 2007 23:50:00 GMT

Photos of cycling South India are now posted on Kodak Gallery Here:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=hwgpku5.8thu8a8p&x=0&y=-lwqorg

The trip back to the states was not nearly as invigorating as the flight out. The jet-lag lingered longer than usual and I was unexpectedly plagued by a bad case of culture shock. Thank you all for your support and encouragement along the way.

Please click on the link above (or paste it into your browser) to view some photos of cycling South India. No registration is required...just click on the Play Slideshow button. If you have trouble, please email me directly at julie@ridestrongbiketours.com and I can share the photos an alternative way.

Cheers and thanks for making this life-long dream a reality!

Julie
www.ridestrongbiketours.com

Udupi to Murdeshwar (110 km) to Gokarna (75km) to Patnem,GOA (90 km)

Julie Gildred — Tue, 20 Feb 2007 09:59:00 GMT

I intended on writing a blow-by-blow, day-by-day, pedal stroke-by-pedal stroke blog. I'm so excited, however, I'll cut to the chase. I've made it to GOA! 23 days of riding, some 1880 km, 777 mosquito bites, 300 litres of bottled water, an equal number of bananas, at least 25 masala dosas, curries every night and, sadly, only 5 beers later I've reached Patnem, GOA!    Technically, I still have another 100 odd kays to ride to Panjim and later to Calungute Beach but I have 7 days to spare. So, for the time being, I'm parking Ganesh (who has served me well) and heading straight for the Arabian Sea.

So here are the more salient points of the last three days.

Udupi to Murdeshwar (110 km)

The ride from Udupi to Murdeshwar was a mixed bag. The roads varied from very good to very poor, to quite busy to no traffic at all, from barren sage-like shrub to rice paddies and green palms. The only constant throughout the day was an unbearable humidity. There are lots of turn-offs to Hindu temples and at Maravanthe Beach the National Highway divides the Arabian Sea and a large river. This is really cool with bodies of water on both sides of you but it only lasts 3-4 kays max and, because of the pristine view, all of the truck drivers take the opportunity here to drop their drawers and take a piss. It's true.

The mostly flat road made for a fast spin and I opted to go further than intended in hopes of finding an ocean to dive into. I read on the internet about this little fishing village cum temple town just south of Kannur that boasts an incredible beach resort and little foreign tourists. So, just 15 clicks from Kannur I turned west off the NH17 to a slow and charming backroad. 2 kays later I landed on Murdeshwar Beach and at the giant Shiva temple.  The town itself is extremely small, all Indian, no internet, is not a 'resort' and lacks options for entertainment or dinner.   Nevertheless, it's a real Indian fishing village which, outside of the temple, retains a certain amount of charm. I spent most of the afternoon fully amused as a pathological people watcher. Only in India could I see in one single snap shot ON the beach: muslim men in their Taqiyahs (white caps) and Thobes (long white robes), cows, fishing boats, dead dogs, packs of dogs, cow dung, sareed women with baskets of fruit on their head, BBQ's, speed boats, ice cream stalls, ox-driven carts and sun bathers.

Side note: I received 3 emails on my Nokia that night. One from the Kiwi who rode from Managalore to the town just 12 kays behind me (Bektal). Although I never experienced it he got caught in a short but pretty heavy rain storm. One from Canada who arrived in Calicut and took a second class ticket on the train to Goa. Apparently it was the train trip from hell. Lastly, Marcus has made it out of the Ashram and he was on a bus heading from Fort Cochin to Gokarna.

Murdeshwar to Gokarna (75 km)

If there's anything to be said about today's ride it's this: it was divine. This is significant because there's a handful of erroneous accounts floating around in the cycling world about this stretch being particularly hilly and hard.  Without naming names, I have a sneaking suspicion that they were either embellishing, hallucinating or both.  I literally got myself so worked up in anticipation of a tough day -- drinking extra water, loading up with carbs only to learn of a few bumps in the road hardly worth a mention.

I'm a slow learner but I finally figured out the proper amount of caloric intake throughout the day and I was in extremely good spirits and feeling strong. It was downright rural between Murdeswhar to Gokarna allowing me ample opportunity to say 'hello' to everyone in hopes of spreading international goodwill. It was refreshing to feel a return to the raw India experienced in Tamil Nadu sharing the road with several ox-driven carts, cows, knife wielding tribesmen, buffalo, Indians carrying extremely heavy baskets on either side of a bamboo stick balanced over their shoulders (this in particular reminded me again of Vietnam) and a large number of Sadhus (wandering holy men). The women walking barefoot along the road were all down from their tribal villages carrying large baskets of vegetables on their heads to the local market.  The sarees worn by this particular tribe were a more risque version of the usual; tied like a halter top around their neck but otherwise sleeveless, backless and exploding in vibrant colors. Sadly, the women were mostly toothless as well.

Occassionally a bus would pass and remind me that I was still on the Indian National Highway. The road here is very narrow, with no paved shoulder but in most places there was a dirt path for emergency bail out purposes. This came in handy on one particular occassion that afternoon when I was pedaling along minding my own business and a bus passing me at 100 km/hour suffered a tire blow out careening left and forcing me to drop a few flights onto the dirt shoulder.

I had high hopes for a 2-day stay in Gokarna, a small temple town graced with a series of white secluded beach coves. Travelers from Kanyakumari all the way up the Malabar Coast raved about the Indian authenticity of this magical beach town. Gokarna is nothing if it's not magical, and there's nothing magical at all.   It only took me one afternoon to cess it out and know that despite my aching arse, I didn't want to stay another day. Admittedly, there's always the risk of disappointment when you set high expectations for something or someone or some place. But, honestly, between the extremely dirty accomodations, dirty town, lack of decent restaurants and abundance of stoned and lost backpackers it held nothing of interest for my soul. Even the beaches, which would normally merit a 4-star hotel, require a 40 minute trek scaling rocks and sliding down stone to get there.

Searching about town inspecting hotels, I was pleased to find Kiwi arriving more knackered than I and covered in the usual road soot. He had found his way to a peanut butter and banana smoothie before attempting the trek to Kudle Beach. I haven't seen him since but he told me in a phone conversation later that the trek was the worst 3 kays of his entire trip.

Gokarna to Patnem, GOA (90 km)

I learned only a few weeks before taking this trip that I'm blind. Okay, not really blind but when I try to read something up close it's blurry and causes me to squint. I didn't bother to address this before leaving the US because, quite frankly, I'm still in denial. This is important to know only because the night before leaving Gokarna and under a sliver of a moon I plotted out my next ride on a very small map. Somehow, between my eyes and my math I missed an entire 50 kilometers in my calculation. I woke again in good spirits expecting an extremely short 40 km day to the town of Palolem or Patnem, GOA. The miscalculation didn't come to light until I was a good 59 km into my ride and having only reached the navy town of Karwar, Karnataka.

I literally sat for 30 minutes in a state of shock reconsidering my day.  It was well after noon and hotter than the Sahara Desert. This is no exaggeration, I've ridden in the Sahara Desert so I know. Karwar has a beautiful strip of sand but no place to sleep outside of the dusty city center. On the other hand, the only other fact I knew for sure was that the beautiful beachside Intercontinental Resort at $300/night would be my first (and perhaps only) option if I could make it that far.

Frustrated trying to piece two different maps together, I finally just tossed them aside and continued to ride. My nearly listless pace allowed me to reflect on how barren and ugly the stretch is between Karwar and the border for Goa. I'm being generous in using the term 'border'. I wasn't even sure I was there until technology took over and AirTel sent me a text message welcoming me into Goa. I stopped right then and there for a celebratory photograph for having reached my riding goal.

Once in Goa, the road continues a series of short pesky climbs but the coconut trees suddenly reappear providing much needed shade. Another 25 kays and lots of sugary fluids later, I found the turn-off for the Intercontinental and later the road to Patnem. A series of unmarked coastal roads took me the long way around but, in so doing, I was fortunate enough to meet an extremely friendly Indian (named Luke?) who steered me directly to the lovely and comfortable SeaView Hotel. Yes, I think I've gone to heaven on this stretch of perfect sand. I'll be here for at least 5 days!

Namaste and thank you for all of your support! If anyone is interested in seeing the photos, I'll post them when I return home. Cheers!

Ride Strong!

Mangalore to Udupi (60 km)

Julie Gildred — Sun, 18 Feb 2007 12:59:00 GMT

Even from those who know me well, there seems to be some misunderstanding over my threshold for pain. During my perfectly delightful rest day in Mangalore, I received several emails from friends concerned about the rough riding and heinous hills. The fact of the matter is there were hills, undriveable roads and moments where I bonked hard. But the other fact of the matter is I'm at my most comfortable conquering a challenge and under a certain amount of pain. Lest we forget the revered Hindu God, Ganesh, known as the overcomer of obstacles and God of wisdom.

Now, I realize there are people in this world who spend most of their lives seeking comfort, or at the most, the status quo. But I'm in good company -- marathon runners, climbers, triathletes, general thrill seekers and a whole host of others who are fueled by often painful challenges. So, as much as I may like to write about the daily woes, I'm really painting a picture of my heaven.

This is why after one full day of rest in Mangalore, I started becoming fidgety. There's only so much walking about town, people watching and mango smoothie drinking one can do without feeling it's time to leave. I was fortunate to be riding out of Mangalore on a somewhat sleepy Sunday morning. Being a city of nearly 400,000, I fully expected to be swallowed up in the buses, tuck-tucks and usual road clog. I also fully expected an hour of getting lost. Neither which occurred.

I love the way Indian's give directions. Take this morning for instance, 'Oh, Udupi, yes for Udupi go straight.' And with a simultaneous flick of the hand in the general direction north. Well, if nothing else, there's nothing straight about Indian city roads. So I ride 500 meters to a 'Y' or sometimes a 'T' intersection or often a full 5-way circular junction and ask the next person I find, 'Excuse me, which way for Udupi?' Always, it's the same response, 'Oh, Udupi, yes for Udupi go straight.' And I follow the flick of the hand. With no city maps or other signage I can read, I've come to rely on these directions 100%. Indeed, I prefer them to any map and within a handful of minutes (and no wrong turns I might add), I found myself merging left onto the road to Udupi.

It's a fast flat 60 kays from Mangalore to Udupi and, if your'e early enough, well-shaded by an abundance of trees. Much of the road has been recently paved and, if not, the work is in progress. And just as I was delighting in the road quality and rural quiet, I came upon two trucks that had met head on still sitting twisted in the middle of the road. Sobered and more alert, I started to notice that indeed it's a narrow road.

Arriving at the Udupi turn-off much earlier than expected, I seriously cosidered adding another 50 clicks to take me to my next day's destination. But in a rare moment of discipline and effort to increase my cultural awareness, I turned right through the city gates to a forgettable hotel and then the famed Sri Krishna Temple. Udupi is a smallish city with nothing more than the temple, an unusual amount of women's shoe stores and astrologers galore. It's also known as the home of the famed Masala Dosa.

I did a bit of business with the AirTel people (where they told me my phone number was a lucky number), some banking (where I tried to stretch things out as their A/C felt particularly good) and was looking forward to experiencing a Masala Dosa from Udupi but then the strangest thing occurred -- I didn't feel like a proper dinner or dinner at all. It must have had something to do with the heat and short day of riding so instead I went straight for a piece of chocolate cake and watched Patch Adams on HBO. Now, if that's not entertainment in Udupi, I don't know what is!

Hope everyone is well! Ride Strong!

To make a donation to the Challenged Athletes Foundation please visit http://raceforareason.kintera.org/julie

To check out my summer tours: http://www.ridestrongbiketours.com

Pallikara to Mangalore, Karnataka (60 km)

Julie Gildred — Sat, 17 Feb 2007 08:38:00 GMT

I woke this morning to the sweet smell of scrambled eggs and my personal pot of hot milk coffee. I thought maybe I might be back in the States until I heard the 17 year-old servant tapping on my door, 'Madame, your breakfast is ready.' The Chandralayam caters to your every need including a western breakfast served gardenside at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. Grateful for the sunrise meal, I thanked the owner and his servant a thousand times then pushed off for Mangalore under sunny skies.

There's only two noteworthy climbs in and out of Kannur, with the rest of the day smooth surface and refreshing flats. Although I rejoined the main highway 17 after Kannur, it felt more like a secondary road with a rural setting and slim traffic.

After about 40 clicks I reached a milestone, officially moving from Kerala State to Karnataka. There's no official border crossing, just a state tax station for trucks and dilapidated sign welcoming north bound travelers to Karnataka. More obvious, however, was the re-emergence of wandering cows and friendly Hindu smiles.

I busted a few pimpled face teenage boys who passed me on a motorbike at a slow speed. I'd seen this a few times over the past week where trucks or motorbikes rush to pass me then slow down and discreetly snap my photo with their mobile phones. These two kids actually stopped in front of me and while the driver pretended to be working on a failed engine, the other is snapping my picture with his phone. With a big smile I stopped and offered up a still pose. They were so embarrassed but politely thanked me before they sped off.

In just over 3.5 hours I arrived in Mangalore, a progressive city sprawled over 3 hills and bordered by the coast. I was pleased with the short day and even more pleased with the city. Having more energy than usual, I examined four hotels and was delighted to find the stylish (almost bordering on swank) Hotel Manorama for the stately sum (NOT) of $6.00/night! It rocks.

I read a few days ago that Mangaloreans are particularly famous for their food. I positively confirmed this fact all afternoon. First there's the best banana leaf Thalis for lunch at Janatha Deluxe; and the understated but sweet fresh papaya fruit salad at the road side stahl on KS Rao Rd., just past the imposing Milagres church the Hotel Moti Mohal has a bakery shop with mouth-watering mocha biscuits which go particulaly well with a genuine Italian cappuccino from the Cafe Corner on Balmatta St. After a brief but necessary nap, this was all followed up by one of the tastiest veg dinners at Hotel Naivedyam where the chef did something really interesting with red curry, cottage cheese and 7 vegetables. It's safe to say that any health concerns are resolved and I'm no longer running on a caloric deficit. Yes, indeed, I think Mangalore is calling me to stay for just one more day of digestion.

Ride Strong!

To help me reach my goal and support a worthy cause, tax deductible donations can be made to the Challenged Athletes Foundaton at http://raceforareason.kintera.org/julie

For a trip of a lifetime! www.ridestongbiketours.com

Muzzhappilangad to Pallikara just north of Bekal Fort (115 km)

Julie Gildred — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 10:36:00 GMT

I emerged from my beach bungalow this morning into a world hard to leave; swaying palms and an already sunny beach. I set off early into the coconut tree jungle on a somewhat grassy dirt path, pushing Ganesh past a few palm-frond homes, across a narrow foot bridge, lifting him over a few rocks to the short-cut back to the main road.

I considered, then instantly dismissed, having breakfast at one of the 'Fast Food' stahls along the road. I'd convinced myself there was actually a nip in the air that I wanted to avail myself of while it lasted. I also became acutely aware of something else in the air -- the overwhelming sting of burning trash! It's totaly puzzling to me that in a country so progressive in science, medicine and engineering, you'd think they could come up with some solution for proper waste management. Under the current scheme, sweepers come out and form little votives of trash lining the road before lighting a match. Needless to say, the crisp morning air I foolishly imagined quickly turned into the typical heavy, eye-burning and lung searing stuff.

Just as I was contemplating the trash and my chronic cough, I was jolted back to the road by an actual marathon on National Highway 17. It was poorly attended but well staffed, with each barefoot runner having his personal motorcade followed by an ambulance.  Now, I thought I'd seen everything on Indian roads, but this was a suprising and distracting first. Suddenly, riding a bike didn't seem so hard.

For the next 40 clicks after bypassing Kannur, I worked through my entire range of gears.  There's an endless series of the most unpleasureable roller coaster hills. Nothing too long, but constant and steep. Mentally, it was a day where I had to dig deep and only 10 kays from my destination (Bekal), I began a hard and fast bonk. It's really a strange phenomenom, logically I knew I should have eaten more than one quick rice and coconut goodie some 4.5 hours before. Usually (and those who know me can verify this), I wouldn't even consider the notion of skipping a meal. But it was too hot to feel hungry and too much work to stop.

I thought I could bite off the 10 kays and then chew on some food but as the road swings more westerly a stiff headwind kicked in.  Rotating down into nearly my granny gear, I started to set smaller goals of one kilometer at a time.  I gave out only 3 kays from Bekal, finally stopping for pure sugar, cold water and a leg rest.   One of the few things that kept my legs turning into Bekal were the posters of Suddam Hussein lining the road. For the last few days the communities have been noticeably Muslim, but around Bekal I discovered they must be strong Sunnis. Don't get me wrong, nobody appeared outwardly hostile to a blonde American on a bike, but at the same time, nobody was quick to smile or say hello.

There are several large mosques lining the road into Bekal and the road was graffitied in Tour de France style, only with Muslim symbols and foreign words I was happy not to understand.  Consulting my guide book, it listed only a few bottom budget guesthouses still a few kilometers into the headwind north. Contemplating my meager options in this all too seedy hood, I caught a glimpse of an extremely rare sight -- a slick new air-conditioned tourist information center. It was an extremely modern facility which, I later learned, is funded by some mega-resorts projected to be open on Bekal Beach just in time for high season in 2008. Prying a little more I extracted the gem of the day, a private home stay only 2 kays down an obscure dirt road and tucked in a lush fruit bearing jungle. It was pricier than my usual budget ($11/day), but I was feeling entitled to a spell of luxury and comfort after the fatiguing and long day.

So I was pleased, 5.5 hours and 115 km after starting out, to find myself in a Heritage home getaway (called Chandralayam) complete with handcarved wood ceilings, spotless red oxide floors, a breezy spacious lounge and amazing home cooked meals.  Even more satisfying, perhaps, was the connection with a nearby Ayuverdic Spa.  I've disted the ayuverdic treatments for too long and decided I couldn't legitimately criticize something I've never experienced.  In the name of research and, quite candidly, in the hopes of being able to move again, I meandered down the road for the all over 'Rejuvenating Massage'. This amounted to at least a gallon of sweet smelling warm oils swooshed up and down my body for a solid 90 minutes. And, just in case I didn't sweat enough on the ride, they locked me in a steam chamber to ensure complete and total dehydration of my body.  Joking aside, it was a worthwhile and truly enjoyable experience.

In my absence from the guesthouse, a group of friendly and fun Italians moved in. What better way to close the day than dining al fresco with four Tuscan natives. After several failed attempts at their English followed by my non-existent Italian, we settled in on French, laughter and alot of hand gesticulations.

Ciao and Ride Strong!

To make a tax deductible donation to the Challenged Athletes cause please go to: http://raceforareason.kintera.org/julie Thank you.

http://www.ridestrongbiketours.com

Kozhikode to Muzhappilangad Beach (70 km)

Julie Gildred — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 09:29:00 GMT

There's only one thing that could have improved this Valentine's Day in India, and that will happen soon enough. I woke to another blistering forecast plastered on the front of the Hindu Times, 'Sunny skies, 35C, 84% humidity'. Finally, I think I've acclimated because it just didn't feel that hot. Nevertheless, after a belly bloating western style breakfast in the hard to leave Hyson Heritage Hotel, I shoved off from Calicut as early as I could.

Exiting Calicut was nothing like the trauma of cycling in. The main road north was nicely shaded with a generous shoulder and light, light traffic. So light that I seriously considered that perhaps Valentine's Day could be yet another Hindu holiday. At a road block 2 clicks further on I learned that I was blessed with a major bridge failure necessitating a long diversion. I'm not really sure where the diversion went because with a little smile and pitiful plea, the traffic officer waved me through. For the next 20 kays it was completely surreal, an entire Indian road all to my own!

After the bridge (which hadn't failed but was really just being painted), I took a very worthy 10 km side trip to Kappad Beach. I've always had a fascination with the world's great explorers and this is where Vasco de Gama landed in 1498. If there was a memorial or rock for him I never found it, but I was equally thrilled to find a gorgeous little beach and the lovely Kappad Beach Resort (for future trips).

Between Tikkodi and Verdakara I had somewhat of a respite where I could ride safely, while letting my mind wander. I covered really important and puzzling topics like, How could Vasco de Gama have 6 children when he was out at sea for years? And, What exatly do they teach at that Indian driving school? Finally, I focused in on the imminent end to my journey and my goals for the Challenged Athletes Foundation. I'm still nearly $1,000 bucks short so I best spend some time on email for some last ditch fundraising. Just as I finished that thought an Indian hand-cyclist passed me by. Now that's a true challenge!

From Vadakara to Thalaserry (also referred to as 'Telicherry', or if that's not enough, 'Pondicherry'), constant vigilance was required. There are a series of 'weak bridges' over the backwaters of Kerala all funneling into a single lane uphill mess. At either end of each bridge there was a queue a mile long, with most buses completely ignoring the queue and trying to overpass to the front of the line. As you can imagine, this created several instances of total gridlock where I was forced to wait or, more often than not, walk Ganesh along the very narrow strip of dirt where every other walker and motorcyclist was trying to maintain forward progress.

Five hours passed faster than I thought and, with all the activity, I forgot to have lunch. Just as I was keeping an eye out for a sliced watermelon, I saw an unusually well-placed sign for Muzhappilangad Beach. I won't even attempt to pronounce it and it's not a place I would have thought to go, but for a tip given to me by some British backpackers 12 days ago in Madurai. They told me about an empty beach and off-the-beaten path homestay where the owners cook and clean and cater to your every needs.

So with the thought of staying in another big Indian city wholly unappealing, I rode Ganesh directly onto the beach. I've never been there, but I imagine this must be what the Seychelles are like: 4 km long crescent shaped white beach, coconut trees, hard sand for running, no hawkers, no gawkers and no development. In fact, the place was entirely desolate. I was able to find a few guys just hanging out under the shady palms who pointed me another 2 kays down the beach (there is no paved road to get you there). A few kilometers later a really dark and friendly Indian man in his dhoti offered me up one of four beach side bungalows for 400 Rs($9)/night. It was a bit pricey for the rudimentary room but I suppose that's the price you pay to hear waves crashing on the beach.

I wallowed away a fast afternoon stretching my legs doing cartwheels on the beach. Following the sunset feast, I devoured another delish veg curry meal with three other exclusive guests. Not a Valentine's Day I will easily forget.

Love and miss you all!

Ride Strong!
www.ridestrongbiketours.com

To make a tax-deductible donation to the Challenged Athletes cause please go to: http://raceforareason.kintera.org/julie

Guruvayoor to Kozhikode (120 km)

Julie Gildred — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 14:23:00 GMT

I came close to calling it quits today. It was a rough ride from the get go. It started with the initially exotic elephants that belong to the Guruvayoor temple and work in various capacities in the neighboring areas. In the mornings, however, they spend most of their time pooping all up and down the road. If you've never seen elephant poop, let me just say, it's proportionately sized. I almost took a picture of it to show you but I was too concerned about manuevering around it.

There were also a few long parade of wedding cars clogging the morning road. By virtue of the number of wedding halls and brides I witnessed, I could pretty much gather that Guruvayoor was an auspicious place for Hindus to tie the knot.

By 8 a.m. it was 90 degrees, 80% humidity and I felt like I was no further along.  I finally arrived at a critical and very busy unmarked junction in Edappal and, despite my better judgement, I followed the directions given to me by 3 different men. I could tell there had to be a side road from Edappal that would keep me off the highway through Tirur and Tanur and eventually reconnecting just outside of Kozhikode. But all men unanimously told me I could access that road by going straight, then right, then left.    For the total of 95 kays, the straight, right then left turned into an all day up and down of jack-hammered road surface in the exposed now 95 degree sun. Up until this point, the riding has been largely flat with excellent to fair conditions (with minor exceptions). But just as the hills started to kick in, the road surface got so poor that on several occassions I had to get off Ganesh and walk.

At about kilometer 55, the road smoothed out again and I finally gave into the grind; enjoying the opportunity to shift up and down in my saddle and stretch my back on the declines. Actually, shifting around in my saddle became a little difficult because some duct tape holding it together shifted back exposing the sticky part to my sweaty shorts.  It wasn't until I finally got off the bike could I figure out why my butt was nearly super-glued to the saddle.

I tried to distract myself with the scenery but there was zilch so I shifted my focus on world religion. It was really amazing to have gone from the Catholic streets of Cochin to the Hindu town of Guruvayoor and now be passing through a region that is, as best I can tell, entirely Muslim.  I know I live in the world's greatest 'melting pot' but India is a close second. More obvious than at home are the outward signs of religion I can detect just from the street: the churches, mosques and temples, the traditional dress, even right down to what food they're slicing up on the side of the street.

Fortunate for me, the Muslims like their fresh fruit juices, served at the frequent 'Fruit and Cool Bars'. So, after 5 hours in the saddle I pulled Ganesh over and refueled on a juicy watermelon, one of my favorite South Asian delights.

It took another 1.5 hours over several bridges and into a stiff head wind to reach Kozhikode, which all the locals still call Calicut.  As you enter the outskirts of Calicut the side of the road is really built up with one stall after another in what appears to be a very depressed neighborhood.   I rode straight between the afternoon buses to the beach for my directional bearings. I knew Calicut was once a very active and prosperous port town but was surprised to find so much commercial activity still occurring. A line-up of endless trucks and grubby looking men, loading and unloading from the port. This wasn't a place where I could really soak up the typical beach atmosphere so I started asking around about a hotel.

After 7.5 hours on the saddle, I finally found a really pleasant 3-star hotel in central downtown. I nearly scared the reception staff into speechlessness when I walked in the door. These three sareed women had eyes as big as saucers when my entirely soot-covered body asked for a room.   Admittedly I got a bit scared too when I had the opportunity to see myself in a mirror. I immediately poured my battered body into a long cold shower followed by a hot curried meal.

Ride Strong!

Ride Summary: 120 km; road surface ranged from 20% good, fair to unrideable off-road; weather was 95 degrees, 82% humidity; terrain was hilly all-day.

www.ridestrongbiketours.com

Fort Cochin to Guruvayoor (85 km)

Julie Gildred — Mon, 12 Feb 2007 13:09:00 GMT

I woke to another day of high humidity and even stronger sun so I decided to push off early to beat the afternoon oppression. Circling the wharf I found a piping hot milk coffee with flies before boarding the 10 minute and 1 Rs ferry ride to Wipin Island, just to the north.

Stretching lengthwise against Kerala's mainland, Wipin Island is about 35 km long and boasts Fort Cochin's nearest beach, Cherai. It's also, allegedly, the most populated island in India, all of whom were attending the multiple and elaborate Catholic churches this morning. Most of the churches had large open entrances and, peeking in, I could see a few plastic chairs but the majority of the people sitting on the floor. Those that couldn't fit into the church spilled over onto the perimeter.

I was blessed with virtually empty streets but this also meant that all potential breakfast spots were closed for the day. I had it in my mind that Cherai Beach would be a good stop but when I got there I was sorely disappointed. There was only one open shack made of palm fronds and blue plastic tarp where two ancient ladies with no teeth were serving up some local rice and coconut specialty. Just as I was taking my pass, a British bloak appeared excited to see another westerner on a bike. He and his buddies were apparently riding the interior and recently landed on the west coast of Kerala via a multimodal network of transportation. To be couteous I stopped and shared a Chai with him but between his swollen unexplained black-eye and hand-rolled cigarettes, I really preferred to be making forward progress.

The beach road along Cherai turns into a single-lane ghost land and I wondered whether there would be a bridge at the other end. When I got to the northern tip, I saw a few fishermen cleaning their nets who I considered asking for a lift. But a nice gentlemen on a red motorcycle shared with me a network of dirt walking paths zig-zagging between coconut groves and large empty vacation homes. I would have never found it if he hadn't let me follow him but eventually the dirt road dropped me right at another ferry stop. The boat hands banged up my bike pretty good because the little passenger ferry is really not designed for bikes or motorcycles. But, unlike other transportation systems in India, it didn't stop them from loading at least 10 large motorcycles and a few bikes up and over the water and into the tiny low-ceilinged dingy. The 5 minute journey felt like a lifetime as every eye on the boat simply stared in silence at the funny looking blonde girl.

I really had no idea where I had landed other than it was west of the N17 and a small quiet road. It also turned into one of the more exclusive residential areas I have ever seen. From Azhikid all the way up to Thalikkulam, it was a fine example of serious wealth. Between the lush green trees and grandeur of the homes, I felt like I was in Hope Ranch, Santa Barbara, only with coconut groves. I never really saw any people around or cars on the road so I can only conclude that these are vacation homes of Kerala's upper crust.

On several occassions the road would intersect with a hard T where I had a total uncertainty about where to go next. But, as is typical at nearly all Indian towns, within seconds locals are pointing me in different directions. Needless to say, the riding was a bit slower than usual but I was perfectly pleased to be off the highway experiencing Kerala at its best. One note about this highly recommended diversion from N17, places for food and water are scarce. In most places they didn't have bottled water and I had to force down some yucky sugar soda for hydration. I finally found some cold fizzy water a few kays later and some new baked muffin goodies that I hope I can find again.

About 20 km out from Chaavakkaad, I swung east and arrived at N17. I think I could have extended the serenity of the other road a bit longer but I started getting really lost down some streets that turned into dirt trails and, eventually, into nothing. Once on the smooth surface of the mainroad, it was a fast flat straight into Chaavakkaad and right to Guruvayoor.

I wanted so badly to have a hotel just call me out, I was tired and soaked through and more than ready for a cold shower. But Guruvayoor is an important Hindu pilgrimage town because of the 15th century Sri Krishna Temple and hotels were everywhere. One thing I've learned, if nothing else, the exterior of a hotel in India often bears no relation to their rooms. After an hour of hotel shopping I finally landed in a relatively clean and inexpensive place just 1 km from the temple (read: lots of noise and tacky shops around).

I had dinner with strangers again, Hindu pilgrims from Mumbai. A roving black-out necessitated an end to some all-female festival and early time to bed.

Ride Strong!

Allepey to Fort Cochin - 70 km

Julie Gildred — Sat, 10 Feb 2007 16:18:00 GMT

Sometimes the best laid plan is no plan at all. It was a sunny Saturday morning and I must have slept through my Timex alarm thereby missing my scheduled rendezvous with the Canada boys. By the time I untangled myself from the mosquito netting, Canada had hit highway 47 and I was left to move north on my own. Having seen a laid-back India the day before, I decided to spend the extra effort getting lost on small tertiary roads non-existent on my maps.

Following the natural markers of the sun in the east and Lakshadweep Sea to the west, I followed the north canal road to the outskirts of Allepey before coming to an abrupt stop by a passing train. This gave me ample time to survey all the truck and rickshaw drivers in the queue for directions to a small road to Cochin. Unanimously they pointed me back to the direction I had come and, in disbelief, I spun around my load and trudged back to the north canal. It took a few rounds of dead ends and turn-arounds but ultimately I discovered the dream road to Cochin. I'm sorry I can't offer up a more useful guide to future cyclists of South India, but if you just ask the man at the banana stand at the corner of YMCA and N. Canal Rd., he'll point you down the right direction and give you a few bananas for the road.

For the next 60 kays I spun like it was Sunday on a lazy single lane paved road, through quiet fishing villages and over backwater bridges. Gazing left, colorful fishing boats lined the entirety of the Malabar Coast while my right view saw inlets and endless cocunut groves. Being Saturday, the village kids were out doing what Indian kids do: playing cricket, hanging out or pushing tires with a stick. When word spread, I was greeted in successive towns with a long line-up of high fiving hands.

It was the first day of cycling India in a truly traffic-free zone, so I slowed my legs to a crawl soaking in the tranquility of Kerala. The further north I moved, the Christianity of South India really popped out with elaborate Catholic churches, seminary schools and nuns moving about. I'm sure out of the 23 million Christians in India, at least 70% are concentrated here.

On several occassions during this trip, I've vascillated on the viability of a future Ride Strong Bike cycling tour to India. As I entered Fort Cochin from the desireable perspective of the Beach Rd. I started preparing a tour itinerary in earnest. Surrounded by the Arabian Sea and backwaters of Kerala, Fort Cochin (or simply Kochi), is a stunning and slow residential town preserving the best of its multicultural past. Beginning with Vasco de Gama's arrival in late 1490's, Cochin has seen its spice trade successively ruled by the Portuguese, Dutch and British. The architecture of the palaces, churches and museums all reflect this varied past giving Fort Cochin a unique European feel. Add to this Michelin quality restaurants and classy boutique hotels and Fort Cochin is good for at least two days of a Ride Strong tour stop.

I was greeted at Fort Cochin's entrance by the owner of a really posh hotel. Taking one look at my greasy hands, he offered up a home stay at Henri's Anchorage. I followed his scooter for the short 1 km ride where I had the pleasure of meeting Henri, his lovely wife and sweet 15 year old daughter. It's another special spot for a short stay off the main sqaure just in front of the beautiful Santa Cruz Basilica.

Walking off my incredible lunch at Kashi Coffee Cafe, I ran into the Canada boys who arrived via N47. We all spent the remainder of the evening lounging under big trees and consuming refreshements before refueling one more time on the fresh catch BBQ.

So who's in for an India tour February 2008?

Ride Strong!

Varkala to Alappuhza (or Alleppey) - 120 km

Julie Gildred — Sat, 10 Feb 2007 09:16:00 GMT

Varkala to Alappuhza (or Alleppey) - 120 km

I'm convinced that the first trailblazers into evey third world are German. I know this not only because of all the Germans I meet on the road, but also because of the puzzling presence of 'German Bakeries' from Sihanookville, Cambodia to Varkala Beach, India. I woke my first morning in Varkala intending to ride, but I was even more determined to beat a nagging cold. So, I navigated on foot the 200 meters through the cocunut groves to the cliff (which is the center for all activity at Varkala Beach) and became overwhelmed by the number of breakfast and food choices: 2 German Bakeries, the Swiss Cafe, Cafe Italiano, Jicky's for juevos rancheros and even the French Creperie. The biggest draw at all these places is the availability of something simply referred to as 'Brown Bread' (meaning, you don't have to eat the usual thin sliced wonder bread). But after Kovalam, I wasn't in the mood for another travelers cafe so I trudged in the hot sun 4 kays into Varkala Town where I found a proper Indian breakfast and my Milk Coffee Man.

Incredibly satiated, I fell into a Varkala time void for the next two days. I can't exactly say where the time went, but the days were crammed with reading, dining and dips in the Arabian Sea.  There were also plenty of westerners to keep me entertained, all of whom were enrolled in one or more yoga and ayuverdic retreats. Indeed, Varkala is not India at all.   By virtue of the restaurants alone I'm sure you could ascertain, it's a settlement of far-out westerners from all over the world.

After too many days of too many quacks engaging in auyverdic treatments for sleep apnea to hang nails, I was ready to return to raw India and a different world. I met Canada early the morning of February 9th for a short (35 kays) and incredibly lovely ride up the coast to Kollam. Contrary to our wholly insufficient maps, we found a back road up the coast passing through peaceful fishing villages with names like Capill and Kakkadukai.   The road winds east and dropped us on N47 only 12 kays outside of Kollam where we had precious little time to follow a well-placed and friendly rickshaw driver to the boat to take us to Alleppey.

Kollam is the southern gateway for one of the most popular (and worthy) Kerala activities: cruising the network of over 1900 km of backwater canals. For us, it was a welcome opportunity to see a side of India we didn't know existed and cover another 80+ km north off the saddle. As a general rule, I can be pretty skeptical about boat tours that take tourists to contrived stops to see how the local wool is weaved or bread baked. Inclusive in the price is usually 3,000 snotty-nosed kids all asking for a pen. This had none of that. Taking our bikes with no extra charge, we settled into our deck seats and slowly (8 hours) meandered through postcard scenery. Each side of the canal was smothered in coconut trees with intermittent simple rural homes. The primary economic activity on the canal is fishing (closely followed by house-boating). There are small schools of skinny fishermen casting their nets from one-person wooden boats, large claw-like Chinese-style fishing nets draped over the canals, single speedo-adorned divers who would disappear and re-emerge with buckets of mussels and, my personal favorite, Kingfisher birds diving for their fill.    And so for 8 hours we were contentedly entertained by birds and a tranquility I didn't know existed.

Alleppy is known as the Venice of India and arriving at sunset proved it true. It's one of the more romantic places in India where you can be paddled through narrow canals on gondola-like boats.   Outside of the canals, the town center at night is nothing special. I only found a scuzzy guesthouse run by a bitter man and an inordinate number of tacky gold jewelery shops.   Canada found a more upscale retreat where we agreed to meet in the morning.

I was under the mosquito netting early for a much needed soundless sleep.

Ride Strong! (from Cochin, India)

Kovalam to Varkala (70 km)

Julie Gildred — Thu, 08 Feb 2007 04:59:00 GMT

When Kiwi, Marcus and I finally came to conciousness on Kovalam beach, we had only two things on all of our minds: our immense thirst, closely followed by our hunger. Looking for a restaurant along the 1-person wide beach boardwalk gave us a chance to finally check out the Kovalam scene. It's an interesting mix of mostly rotund European tourists on inexpensive package tours combined with skeletal long term stay yoga-mediation freaks. We didn't fit into either one. Nevertheless, there was a certain attraction about the fresh steamed Baracuda in banana leaf and cold Kingfisher beer that we were required to guardedly drink out of coffee mugs or tea kettles. It's a curious agreement the restaurants have with local authorities: in exchange for a regular supply of backsheesh (i.e., $$), restaurants are permitted to serve beer provided: (1) it's not on the menu; (2) the bottles and alcohol are hidden from visual sight; and (3) the bill reflects only the consumption of something called 'Pope Juice'. I wonder what the Pope would have to say about that?

For the first time since arriving in India, I awoke the next morning to the song of birds hanging out in the cocunut groves. Indulging in the ambience, we decided to take a 'day-off' the bike. Casting aside my long standing rule of never getting on a bus in a third world, Marcus and I took the 8 Rs ride into the 850,000 person capital of Kerala, Trivandrum. We went for the free massages at the massage school but I ended up spending most of the day resolving a beef I had with my mobile phone provider. I was sent back and forth across town from the large Georgian style Secretariat building on MG Road to the Women's College across town and caddy-corner to the stately architectural wonder of the police commissioners office. Finally, after an unintentional and lengthy walk around the Sri Pad Palace via the local fruit smoothie cum sweets shop I landed in the administrative headquarters for the best southern India mobile phone provider, Airtel. A young receptionist took pity on my mobile phone plight and made some special calls to someone higher up who was able to make a few 'tourist exceptions' for the dumb blonde. I know we read the only way things work in India is with a little grease, but I have consistently found the local business people to be incredibly helpful, honest and willing to go far beyond the usual call of duty.

The bus back to Kovalam Beach was as expected -- hot and bulging with babies, fish and too many people, including at least 10 who were flailing around like flags on the window bars outside the bus. Note to self: never take another bus in India again.

The next morning I loaded Ganesh alone. Marcus decided to check himself into an ashram for some yoga and R&R. I half-expected that I too would want to experience an Indian ashram, but when I heard I might have to clean toilets as part of my chores, I thought better of it. It's not that I'm opposed to domestic chores, it's just not something I'd sign-up for in India if given the choice.

Plus, I was getting a pungent taste for the type of westerners at the Indian ashrams -- a little lost, a bit sickly and, quite frankly, in search of a home. Perhaps it's their strict vegetarian diet or cleaning too many squat toilets, but they all seem to lack a single joule of energy. What's most puzzling of all is how they justify their clean, albeit instrospective existence, with smoking a chain of hand-rolled cigarettes.

After a quick farewell to the Canada boys preparing for their morning swim, Ganesh and I toiled up and out of Kovalam Beach to Varkala. We were able to skirt around the madness in Trivandrum by taking the airport road junction, reconnecting with the main road well north of the city. The road was one successive town after another, interspersed with some high-end work and lifestyle campuses. Clearly super-centers for technology and American customer service support.

The turn off for Varkala is not well marked but eventually I came across a rickshaw driver who pointed me west. From the mainroad, it's another 13 km to Varkala cliff where a jumble of guesthouses, resorts and home stays abound. Unexpectedly, the accomodations are a little pricier than in Kovalam but I found a home stay in a somewhat sterile mansion for 400 Rs/night. Not a bad deal considering I have a spacious top floor veranda overlooking a banana plantation and room large enough for an orchestra.

Amongst travelers, Varkala is known as THE hidden beach gem. Goa being the first to be discovered, shortly followed by Kovalam. Indeed, as beaches go, it's one of the best -- spacious and white, gently sloping into a somewhat fierce shore break. It's also the capital of yoga in Kerala, with a density of outdoor 'studios' greater than Encinitas or Venice Beach, California. What has caught my attention though is the large number of oddly placed cosmetic dental clinics dotting the small dirt roads. They're all promising whiter teeth, sterile treatments and a beautiful smile. I think I'll stick to flossing, thank you very much.

Ride Strong from an unusually hot and humid Varkala, Kerala, India!

Kanyakumari to Kovalam, Kerala (90 clicks)

Julie Gildred — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 13:54:00 GMT

Kanyakumari to Kovalam, Kerala (90 clicks)

I know many of you are wondering where Marcus is most of the day. I'm equally perplexed. He departs sometime in the middle of the night when I'm still in bed, arriving in most towns some time before 11:00 a.m. This morning we both woke at 5:00 with the unusually loud 'call to prayer' and while Marcus hit the road well before 6:00, I ambled over to the Sea View Hotel for a western-style breakfast with Canada.

Today was a turning point in the trip. We were finally moving from south to north from the state of Tamil Nadu to Kerala. Kerala is one of India's smallest states, stretching lengthwise between the Arabian Sea and Western Ghats. It's also the only state in India with a literacy rate of 91%. But the real attraction for visitors are Kerala's trademarks: palm fringed white sandy beaches and ayuverdic treatments.

Under a rising and strong sun, I departed Kanyakumari in a surprisingly nostalgic state. I knew the days of rural India were largely over. I savored every passing kilometer in Tamil Nadu -- the sunrise, the smelly fishing stalls, the pretty churches next to 'milk coffee' cafes.  The early morning air and meandering canal made for an idyllic, albeit humid, start.

Some place between Nagercoil and the border of Kerala my trance was broken by the abundant energy of a freckled 20-something Kiwi (who lives in Melbourne).  At first I assumed it was one of the Canada boys but his obvious strength and slight build told me otherwise. Kiwi is cycling largely the same route but, upon further scrutiny, I discovered to a certain satisfaction that he's been taking more days off here and there. I say this only because we started to hit some unexpected hills. These were not category climbs but pesky nonetheless and with each successive elevation Kiwi accelerated and I fell back. Clearly it had nothing to do with too much curry but the cumulative effect of 4 days riding without a proper break.

The transformation between Tamil Nadu and Kerala was instananeous and puzzling.  On the one side, the roads were smooth and, upon reflection, tranquil as could possibly be. On the Kerala side we were accompanied by poorly maintained roads and a constant roar of traffic of a different kind. The usual buses, cows and goats were noticeably missing and so to the skirt wearing men. Sure there were a few dhotis (skirts) here and there and an elephant wandering about the side of the road, but there was an unusual number of private vehicles on the road -- something non-existent in Tamil Nadu. Adjusting our riding techniques, we stopped in more than a few towns stuck behind a build-up of cars and flying dust.   Street signage and kilometer markers were also far between, forcing a few more unplanned stops to discover just where we were.

To be fair, I can't just focus on the negative differences. Through all of this, the vibrant coconut groves and lush paddy fields stood out. So much so that when we descended into it Kovalam, we nearly missed the turn. It wasn't so much the palm trees that distracted us as much as it was the downhill approach. Everytime we started descending, another local pointed us back up in a direction that made it seem like we were back-tracking on a long circuitous slog around. We were so close we could smell the beach so finally, we pointed our wheels westward and literally landed smack dab on the beach. I'm not lying. We looked rather foolish surrounded by holiday makers in their lounge chairs and swimsuits as we trudged through the deep sand carrying our heavy loads.

It took a good hour to find our way across the paddy fields, back into the coconut groves where we found Marcus tucked away in a nice family run guesthouse with a porch and jungle view. Within minutes we could be found bodysurfing in the beautiful Arabian Sea, followed by a slumber of what could only be described as three beached (and possibly dead) seals. Yes, Kerala is very different indeed!

Ride Strong!

Tirunenveli to Kanyakumari (84 km)

Julie Gildred — Wed, 07 Feb 2007 04:39:00 GMT

Tirunenveli to Kanyakumari (84 km)

I apologize, the blogging and forward progress has been way-laid by slow internet and sunny beaches.

There's a certain attraction about being the only westerners in a town. People are instantly curious, overly friendly and, in this case, candid to a fault. Now, it crossed my mind once or twice that cycling 2100+ km around South India might just help in shedding that unwanted 'middle' that many women receive as an unexpected 40th birthday gift. How misconceived could I have been? An Indian man set me straight.

It was February 3rd and the rising temperatures precipitated a 'pre-breakfast' departure from Tirunenveli. Heading straight south on the road to Kanyakumari, the 4-laning project had not quite progressed; albeit flat, the road was consistently pot-holed or patched making for a leg-shattering ride. After 3 hours I entered a non-descript, unmarked town where I tucked into a hole in the stall kind of place for a hard earned lunch. It's one of those places where the 'kitchen' is on the street, Chipati Man hovered over a hot skillet and pile of dough with a few wooden benches in a small garage just adjacent. It's usually frequented by men, occassionally Indian women, never a blonde in her bike shorts. I sat with a smartly dressed stranger where a mystery of mouth watering curries and dosas quickly presented themselves on a banana leaf before my eyes. After complimenting me on my newly acquired Indian skill of shoveling curries in my mouth with one hand, Stranger asked me the usual curious questions about my journey and general health. He asked if I was eating Indian food to fuel my ride. 'Of course,' I replied still licking my fingers trying my darndest to look refined. Stranger then bluntly told me that if I continue devouring curries that I'd be as big as him. Baaam, with that one simple sentence Stranger burst my bubble.

It's true though. I spent the rest of the ride discreetly surveying the men and women of India who all seemed to be carrying a load of curries around their middle. This is true despite the troublesome placement of public street scales next to every Sweets Shop in a town.

Being incredibly resilient to bursted bubbles, I spun off from Stranger and Chipati Man feeling justifiably invigorated by the spicey Indian fuel. I spent a sweaty afternoon pleasantly dumbstruck dead center in the 'First Private Largest Windmill Farm' in India. Occassionally, I've been known for impetuous decisions, but normally I would not select a windmill farm for a cycling route. There's too many odds against you; namely strong winds. But, in one of the rarest cycling moments in history, I was blessed with incredibly strong tailwinds and an ever so slight descent all the way into Kanyakumari, otherwise known as 'Land's End'. The road even smoothed out in patches and I couldn't resist dropping into the aero position, resting my elbows on my mountain bike bars and my hands gently gripping my duck-taped handlebar bag. It was a cyclists' dream.

I liked Kanyakumari a good deal more than I expected to. It has several claims to fame including the spot where the Hindu goddess Devi conquered all demons, the place where Swami Somethingorother meditated in 1892 and also the memorial site for an important Indian poet. I just liked it because it's the spot where the Bay of Bengal, Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea all converge.

Marcus and I took shelter in a newly refurbished Guest House with sunrise views over Land's End and just a stone's throw from the hotel where I discovered Canada hiding out. We all spent a balmy evening in a dark basement over a few Kingfisher beers where we learned about Marcus' inadvertent right turn earlier in the day (adding 20 kays to the ride)! Dinner tonight was compliments of Canada. Cheers!

Ride Strong!

Madurai to Kovilpatti (94 km) to Tirunenveli (55 km)

Julie Gildred — Fri, 02 Feb 2007 07:22:00 GMT

Madurai to Kovilpatti (94 km) to Tirunenveli (55 km) February 1 & 2, 2007
Road conditions: Superb A++ and pancake flat. Elapsed Time: 4:00 and 2:30 Fuel: The usual mix of Pongal (another rice variation for breakfast with spicey sauces), Iddly and bananas. Weather: 32-33 C (in other words, HOT).

From Madurai it's a straight shot on the NH 7 down the center of South Central India to Kanyakumari (the most southern tip of India). Given the rising temperatures and paucity of shade, we decided to break the jaunt into three manageable days. From Madurai to Kovilpatti, the ride was just a dream. Nothing memorable for scenery but light traffic and freshly paved sealed roads, thanks to a highly impressive 4-laning project occurring throughout the main arterial roads (note: if anyone is interested in this ride I recommend it be done before the 4-laning is complete in 2008).

With good visibility, I spent most of the first day perfecting my nearly fool-prrof technique for preventing oncoming bus drivers from overtaking in my lane. Among other cavalier Indian driving habits that intrude my daily ride, the one bugging me the most is when I'm spinning on a smooth surface down an otherwise obstacle free road and out of no where two buses are barreling down my throat filling both lanes. Now, don't get me wrong. As much as I love India, I don't have a twisted desire to trade my life for a burial in the Ganges River. But, I've learned if I ride in the middle of my lane and maintain a firm position during an attempted oncoming pass, I can usually stop the driver from pulling out. If this doesn't work, in the split seconds I have left, I sit up straight riding no hands and start twirling my arms backwards in windmill fashion. Almost always, the bus driver recognizes that I'm far crazier than him and will pull in between the other vehicles assuming his own lane. I say this almost always works because just as I was feeling confident in my new found method, a colorfully painted bus from Diva Travels took me head on -- the last thing I saw before bunny hopping off the side of the raised asphalt into the dirt was a temple of marigold flowers swinging from the buses rearview mirror.

On the brighter side, I think I've finally found a big name product sponsor for this trip. Up until this point I've been negligent in not mentioning my incredible Nokia E61 blackberry like multimedia device compliments of Nokia via their relationship with Rob. Then there's the Timex Ironman watch I could not live without. It not only clocks each day's journey but also serves as a useful indicator of how burned my arms are getting. Thanks again to Rob. Then there's my baby-doll powder blue T-shirt from B&L. I'm the envy of every teen in India. Thanks Scot and Dano for re-tooling my tires and tubes.

But today, well, today I happened upon the Tamil Nadu representatives of Coca-Cola who also own Fanta (my refueling drink of choice). They took a liking to my way of travel and would not let me go. They asked several questions wondering what kept me going. Being brighter than the average cyclist they come across, I told them it was the Fanta, of course. They really wanted to do something for me and I would not accept their offer of a ride, so they pulled out a 2 litre bottle of Fanta and presented it to me in one of those formal type deal ceremonies -- you know the type, simultaneously shaking my hand while handing me a two litre bottle of Fanta in front of the camera. Thanks Coca-Cola!

Arriving in Kovilpatti was particularly refreshing (even in the 90+ heat). We new nothing about this nothing town that doesn't even rate for a guide book mention. But, I've discovered a few things about Indian towns not on tourist maps; namely, they're usually far cleaner, there are no beggars, the local food is outstanding and guesthouse rooms are a bargain at $3/night. After a few bucket showers and tending to our clothes, we set out for an egg curry dinner and night on the town (which, given the non-existent forms of other entertainment, amounted to walking around the incredible farmer's market).

The short ride to Tirunenveli was no different than the day before: excellent roads, light traffic and, perhaps, a notch up on visual delights. We 've checked into a high class Indian joint ($10/night) complete with towels and small veranda for, after I hit 'send', an afternoon snooze.

Ride Strong!
Julie (Tirunenveli, India)

Trichy to Madurai (130 km)

Julie Gildred — Tue, 30 Jan 2007 11:41:00 GMT

Trichy to Madurai (130 km)
Road conditions: sealed and superb. Elapsed time: 5:25. Fuel: Dosas, bananas & peanut butter and 2 litres of water. Weather: Pleasant overcast morning giving way to hot sunny skies.

Even the most indecisive should have no trouble in India.  Choices are kept real simple. Restaurants are either veg or non-veg; menus separated by wet and dry; hotel rooms are A/C or non-A/C; water is either 2 litres or 1; or, as it applies to alcohol, there really is no choice at all.  Perhaps the only multifaceted matter that presents itself with a daily discussion is which route to take and how far to go.

Marcus and I had gone to bed in Trichy chewing over the potential options: ride the 130 km to Madurai and take a day off or, ride to Madurai and one or both of us would take a bus direct to Kodaikanal (the only American established hill stations in South India), or skip the ride to Madurai and go directly to Kodaikanal, etc.. The options were endless but we easily discussed and dismissed the idea of riding to Kodaikanal; at 2100 meters it would be a big match for Hercules or, on this trip, even Ganesh. Ultimately, just before slumbering down, we decided and on what each of us wanted: I would ride the 130 km alone to Madurai and Marcus would take a bus to explore Kodaikanal for 24 hours, returning to Maduarai for one night rest.

If the words 'India' and 'peaceful' can be used in the same sentence, I found it today from Trichy to Madurai. Admittedly, I was a bit apprehensive about the distance, terrain and the unknown. Perhaps most disconcerting was the thought of riding into 1.5 million people with only as much as a lame guide book map (geared for backpackers arriving by bus). I was immensely pleased to affirm that most worrying is all for naught: I found excellent roads, very few buses and probably the best scenery yet.

The two lane road runs mostly west and slightly south on a largely flat plateau, threading itself through the eastern rock formations of the Palan Hills (part of the rugged Southern Ghats or mountain range). Palm trees, banana plantations and verdant rice fields lined both sides of the road. Beyond that were large red rock formations presumably part of the Palan Hills. It was like the tropics meeting Moab's red rocks, but in the middle of south central India.

My socialability with locals had noticebly improved over yesterday as I purposefully stopped several times to take photos and spread international good will.  In the long stretch between Verarilmalai and Malur, I imagined I was wearing the maillot jaune. Sadly, there was a noticeable dearth of schools and, consequently, English speaking people in this section. Most of the kids could be found next to their kin, bending down in the fields alongside the road. Only one needed to spot me before word got around and the NH45 became lined with an almost continual row of waving fans. For each and every one, the waving continued until, satisfied, I waved back with a smile.  Not only did all this waving serve to cool down my underarms, but it also gave me much needed opportunities to stretch my hunched back.

As bright as I may have been in high school, there were certain things I preferred not to know. One such thing was the little matter of having to put oil in my VW bug. This resulted in the natural and highly disappointing consequence of my engine exploding just a few weeks before going to college. Looking back, one has to wonder how I ever got accepted into a 4-year university.   I mention this because up until this point Ganesh (the 10-year old Specialized Rockhopper) was running sound. But a few too many days of hard riding, dirt and pot holes had produced a chronic and disturbing clanking whenever there was too much torch on the pedals. I tried several times adjusting gears or my pedal stroke, but after about 3 hours I recalled the lesson I learned in high school. It's amazing what a little oil can do! I also took the much needed break to inhale what's become the best mid-day energy snack -- peanut butter and bananas. No, peanut butter is not an Indian staple; and, no, it's not easy to find. In fact, right now I'm carrying around my empty jar from town to town in hopes I can find someone who knows where I might purchase more.

By the time I reached Madurai, I was soaked through in sweat and drunk on adrenaline. The Tour de France festival atmosphere continued as the entire city was decked out with colorful monuments, flags and music. While I could easily have imagined it was for me, I later learned it was the Chief Minister's son's 56th birthday.

Madurai has a reputation for having particularly good value mid-range accomodation. To beat the loneliness blues and, more pressing, use my private room without Marcus to shave my legs in a real shower, I decided to tow the boat out, opting for a mid-range room (which amounted to $11/night). Sandwiched between two recommended hotels, I selected the Golden Park hotel for no other reason than the security guard out front had a nice smile.  When I stepped inside, I saw immediately I had made the right choice -- it was brand spanking new. The staff was eager to please and, most impressive, the designers had painstakingly removed any hint of any 'Indian' (and I say that with all due respect) in the hotel. There were spotless top sheets and a thick comfy mattress, bath towels, toilets and cable TVs, phones and nightlights and other bathroom goodies that westerners have come to expect.

As much as I could have wallowed around in my room all afternoon, more important matters beckoned -- like mushroom masala and, yes, a cold beer!    I passed the evening with a talkative and good-looking couple from Ottawa on the roof-top terrace of our hotel with a sunset view of the Sri Meenakshi Temple. With the conversation and entertainment so agreeable, I unknowingly sipped an intemperate amount of Kingfisher for dinner.    I was very happy and immediatly enamored with Madurai.

Tomorrow, the first day off!

Tanjore to Tiruchirappalli (Trichy) (55 km)

Julie Gildred — Mon, 29 Jan 2007 12:47:00 GMT

Tanjore to Tiruchirappalli (Trichy) (55 km)
January 29, 2007 Road conditions: smooth sealed most of the way. Total elapsed time: 2:30 (another 30 to get through town). Fuel: 2 bananas, milk coffee, 1 litre of water, buttery biscuits and Gu. Weather: Sunny and warm/30 C.

There was nothing particularly tricky about getting to Trichy, it was just an uphill toil. From the get go, the landscape is largely uninspiring: industrial factories, engineering townships and Trichy suburban sprawl.  And, but for a few seconds here and there, the Indian city traffic never thinned out.

In an effort to beat the heat, Marcus has taken to departing sometime in the morning dark.  He eats 10 bananas before leaving and then 10 more on the road. Rather than cycling solo, I became the subject of an ongoing and unofficial tourism survey conducted by each passing motobike driver.  It's always the same, 'Hello Madame, what is your name' And no matter how many times I say 'Julie' they respond 'Julia, ahhhh, that's a nice name.' I'm not sure if this confusing compliment implies I'm a nice person or if the name has simply taken on a nice sound.  Then it's 'Madame, which country?' The deafening cacophony of horns around us require that this question be repeated several times.   Finally, and somewhat inaccurately, I holler between the cows, 'Caleeefornia'.    'Ahhh, Caleefornia, that's nice.'   All the while I'm dodging oncoming trucks, overpassing goats and zig-zagging between people appearing out of no where. At first this curious questioning was somewhat endearing but after nearly an hour of the same monotonous dialogue, I found talking to myself far more scintillating (and safer). And so, for the first time since arriving in India I simply put my head down and wished I had my Nano I-POD.

Try as I did, I never caught Marcus before entering Trichy.  I was swallowed up alone in the overwhelming streets of 850,000.  Fortunately, major intersections were well staffed with under-employed rickshaw drivers particularly adept at pointing me right, left or straight.    Marcus and I reunited at  the clean and comfortable Hotel Aanand located just caddy-corner to the central bus station, a jog from the train junction and block from the nearest bar.

After we consumed large quantities of Thalis with our hands (delicious tortilla like bread with 12 mysterious and different sauces, curries and salads), I sought with a fervor (and distended stomach) my first Kingfisher beer. Although produced in India, alcohol is rarely served.   I'm finding, to my great displeasure, even beer is considered more taboo than eating the sacred cow. Of the few upscale hotels with a permit to serve alcohol, it's not advertised nor on any menu.  So it was with 5 days of thirst that I enthusiatically followed my guidebook map to Bar Cowboy or something like that. It was exactly what every unsavory house of sin should look like; down 6 flights of stairs in a basement, curtains drawn and lights out. I've never been into an adult book store or strip club before but I imagine this must be what they look like. There was some loud bizarre music and a barely visible man waving me in, but the thought of a clandestine drink was not what I had in mind. Indeed, on second thought, a cold orange Fanta would do me just fine.

Forgoing the 432 steps to the top of the Rock Fort temple, I spent the remainder of my afternoon nursing my legs in anticipation of tomorrow's big ride.

Vengangali to Tangore - 100km

Julie Gildred — Sun, 28 Jan 2007 11:23:00 GMT

January 28 Vengangali to Tanjore (100k).
Road conditions: bad to smooth sealed. Total elapsed time: 5 hours. Fuel: Dosas, bananas and gatorade water mix. Weather: Overcast to sunny hot.

I awoke in a state of panic when I pried my eye opens and finally could look in the mirror. My upper and lower lids were swollen together like siamese twins and a red rash had taken over my thighs. An obvious allergic reaction to one of the many varietals of bites tattooing my body or, perhaps, to the expired Malarone. Usually, I would have welcomed a reason for a 'day off' but, the last thing I wanted to do was stay in this dingy town.

One difficulty facing a rider in India is finding protein and an early breakfast. I set my alarm to beat the Floor Boy (that's really what they call themselves) up before he banged on my door for chai or coffee. Unbeknowst to my trained eye, this turned out to be a 'high end' hotel where you could actually press a buzzer to summon the Floor Boy. A great concept but for the fact that any buzzer pressed in any room could be heard by the entire hotel starting at about 5:00 a.m.. Where were all those wonderful Indian engineers?

After mass, I ambled with the rest of the locals to Restaurant Afta for some breakfast and, more importantly, their supply of waxy napkins. It was highly unusual to find a place open before 8:00 but, being Sunday, they offered a special post-mass breakie starting at 7:00. My eyes were settling in on the omlette and toast when a metal cafeteria-like tray was thrown in front of me with a couple of fresh off the skillet rice pancakes. I hadn't seen these before and waited patiently for the maple syrup to arrive. A few minutes later after I'd nibbled around the corners of each cake with my right hand, a series of sauces and dahl were plopped down. It was all really tasty but reminded me a bit too much like dinner.

There is no glorifying the first 15 kays out of town. It was utter hell. Not wanting to backtrack yesterday's ride, I cut off on a deceivingly tempting single lane country road that, around a corner, fed into the main arterial road used by every bloody pilgrim bus. But that's not the worst part. It was a severely potted red dirt road with easterly side winds sufficiently strong to blow everything kicked up from the buses into my already impaired vision. I guess there's a reason no other local cyclists were using this road.

Approaching Naggapatnum, the road smoothed out to the usual high quality sealed stuff. It was a bit confusing at the junction because somewhere in the last two days there was a noticeable absence of English language street signs. An eager man with no teeth pointed me in the right direction as I cinched down my helmet for the next 95 kays. From Naggapatnum all the way to Tanjore it was an ever so slight but perceivable up river slog. I was kept sufficiently entertained (and vice versa) by three older independent cyclists from Canada having a third world cycling resume putting mine to shame. Swapping stories as cyclists of our breed do, we discovered all that 'small world' stuff from Laos to Kathmandu. Enjoying the conversation, I hung with the group right up until turn-off for the designated meeting spot with Marcus. There was no chance we'd be staying at the same hotel and I clearly burst their bubble when I told them I was living off of $5 - 10 bucks a day.

I was excited that Marcus was already in Tanjore and had done all the 'hotel shopping' for me. It can sometimes be the toughest part of any day. He left me a note at the Shree Diva hotel telling me to go to the Ramasheka Lodge. An entirely forgettable pit hole in the thick of the central bus station but for the $1.50 price tag and the giant complimentary coakroaches. We had reached a new low.

Another amazing curry dinner, internet and, after a good deal of leg work, we finally found the toilet paper!

Love and peace to all! Thanks for all your comments.

PS. Marcus reported an excellent ride from Chidabaram all the way to Tanjore. Also, in no way is he responsible for the crummy hotel in Tanjore, everything else was full.

Chidabaram to Vailankanni (old name Velanganni) - 95 km

Julie Gildred — Sat, 27 Jan 2007 16:19:00 GMT

Chidabaram to Vailankanni (old name Velanganni) - 95 km
January 27, 2007. Road surface excellent sealed most of the way to pot-hole poor. Total elapsed time 5:00 hrs. Humid with cloud cover about 85 degrees. Fuel: Not enough, no breakfast!

Marcus and I had spent most of the night prior pouring over maps, discussing distances, routes and departure dates. Two things became abundantly clear: Hercules was not living up to his name and Ganesh was keen on staying on the coast. There were essentially two potential directions for the day: continue south or go west. Marcus agreed to research the Temple Tour west into the interior to the temple town of Kumbakonam and I opted to continue south along the Indian Ocean. I had heard about a small seaside town of Velanganni, site of the Roman Catholic Basilica of Our Lady of Good Health. With a name like that, how could I refuse?   We agreed, as a fallback, to meet again in 2 days in Tanjore.

The ride south was particularly lovely with relatively quiet flat roads and a nice layer of clouds covering the coast. There really is no winter or summer in Tamil Nadu; it's either hot or very hot and wet.   Now it's just hot. In the mornings you can work up a sweat just latching your panniers to the bike but once the breeze kicks in, it's more pleasant on the bike than it is walking around. Someone forgot to tell the locals how hot it is. On several occassions over the last few days, I've seen the Indian equivalent of a 'beenie'. It's the old-fashioned kind that my Mom would wear sailing the Lido 14 -- knitted with stripes coming down over the ears and then tying underneath the chin. I'm guessing they don't have mirrors (or thermometers) in these thatched homes because they really look quite humorous in 80+ degree weather barefooted in their thin saris wearing beenies.

At the Sirkazhi junction I veered south east following  the signs for Tharangambadi. This turned into a perfectly paved single-lane tertiary road with idyllic one-way bridges and the requisite palm and banana trees. I wanted to let my mind and eyes drink it all in but every time a car or ox-cart passed, it required a full-stop off the side of the road before starting up all over again.

There was also the little matter of the toilet paper. I've been out of it for a full day. My singular mission (besides riding south) was to find some as soon as possible. I performed arguably my best pantomime routine in the next two towns, Karaikal and Nagapattinam, both of significant size. I went successively down the row of stalls; to the pharmacist, the all-purpose water, sweets and condom shack, I even tried the chipati man. You've never seen such confusion on their faces. One young boy understood 'paper' and brought me a nice binded book of stationary. The eager female next door brought me a case of maxi-pads. Tired, hungry and out of luck, I pushed on. Surely, at Our Lady of Good Health I could find some.

I held my breath and rode fast for 20 minutes in the scummiest part of town. I had crossed into the Pondicherry District where, apparently, big Brandy Stores are allowed. One after another they lined a street marked by truckers, tent housing and trash.   Like most of the street scenes so far, the slums suddenly changed back to Indian-normal. The upper end homes lining the coastal road leading into Velanganni had me imagining the most: guesthouses on the beach, roof-top restaurants, fresh seafood and toilet paper for sure. But, alas, my imagination was just that. The 'charming' seaside town of 10,000 is nothing close. It boasts an Indian pilgrim population of at least 10,000 more. All whom arrive on bus after bus after bus on the same single lane road at about 60 miles an hour, honking the same loud horns and blaring the same obnoxious Indian music. Velanganni is really India's version of another spiritual place with no soul - the French town of Lourdes.

The only redeeming feature of Velanganni I could possibly find was the affable Restaurant Afta. It wasn't so much a restaurant as it was an extended street stall. I dined cheaply ($1 USD) and astonishingly well on Chipata and a number of different spicy curries recommended by the attentive waiter Anthony. A few ear plugs, squirt of more mosquito repellent for good measure and I was down for a sound slumber.

Pondicherry to Chidabaram (70 km)

Julie Gildred — Fri, 26 Jan 2007 16:11:00 GMT

January 26 Pondicherry to Chidambaram 70km
Smooth sealed road with intermittent shoulder; 4:20 elapsed time. Fuel: 2 iddlies (steamed rice thingys) and dahl (yellow lentils), 4 small bananas, 3 litres water, 1 Chocolate Outrage Gu

I can't say if it's jet lag or the early morning bang on the door asking 'Chai, please?' 'Coffee Madame?' but I can't seem to sleep past 5:00 a.m. Fortunate for me, the coffee culture is alive and well in India. Starting early every morning, on every street corner, in every town (large or small), you'll find large groups of men huddled around the local coffee stall, sipping their morning milk coffee with sugar. The preparation is really an art. There's no $5,000 espresso machine requiring a 'trained' barrista to push a button. No. It's really more akin to the making and pouring of Moroccan mint tea. First, coffee is filtered using a rudimentary metal and mesh filtering net. Then, steaming hot milk from a large vat is juggled great distances three of four times back and forth from one small glasss to another. The light and frothy milk is then skillfully poured on top of the coffee shot (with a good dose of white sugar) for one of the tastiest coffees I've ever had.

But here's the best part. I need only say 'Milk Coffee' to a half naked man in a skirt usually with paint on his forehead and ring in his nose and immediately he knows what I want. In France, I'm required to go through elaborate lip, tongue and throat contortions to say, 'Bonjour, Madame! Je voudrais une cafe o' lait, s'il vous plais' at least three or four times and still I get a furrowed brow implying confusion as to what I'm trying to order. Starbucks is no better. And so I found myself, dressed in my Pearl Izumu shorts, at 6:00 a.m. on the corner of Nehru and Ragapanali standing out like a sore thumb, sipping a milk coffee and soaking in the local atmosphere.

Navigating our way out of Pondicherry was not nearly as confusing as finding our way in. It was just long and wearing. Pondicherry seemed to start 5 km before the city began and it just goes on and on, mile after mile of the usual mix of heavy Indian traffic, near misses and painful ear deafening noise. Just when I was starting to question the sanity of riding the backroads of a country of over a billion people (which occurred at roughly the same time as a bus pushed a local bicycle into my back panniers), the road opened up into the most scenic stuff. Really, it was straight from a movie set.

Despite the obvious differences, one thing that startled me was how similar the South Indian landscape is to some parts of Vietnam. On reflection, there can't be too many variations in the recipe when the ingredients are water, endless rice paddies, blue sky, fishing, palm trees and thatched villages. For one slightly scary split second I even felt a twinge of nostalgia for those unusual days spent riding the length of Vietnam but then again, perhaps, not. Very unlike Vietnam, we were blessed with beautiful consistent tailwinds, smooth roads an effortless spin and a remarkable absence of street hawkers or beggars. A phenomenon occuring mostly in the country or untouristed cities.

I'd be lying if I told you Marcus was seeing the day the same way. The new Hercules bike was proving to be particularly troublesome to ride. With a seat post too short and gait more like a slog, Marcus was having to work. If it weren't for his several stops, however, we would not have met so many Indian boys of high school age who absolutely idolize Arnold Schwarzenegger.

There's really not much to tell about, Chidambaram, our destination for the night. Most people come to this dusty lifeless town as pilgrims to worship at one of the holiest Shiva temples in the south. I'll remember it for the place where my bike computer was ripped off by a pilgrim who had just been to temple!

Mamallapuram to Pondicherry (100 km)

Julie Gildred — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 11:46:00 GMT

Janaury 25 - Tailwinds to Pondi 100 km

Despite the small morning incident where Hercules (Marcus' new bike) flattened a cute black dog on our way to see the Five Rathas Temple, Indian Karma ruled supreme today. Waking up early paid off in Rupees at the Temple. The usual guards and bus loads of pilgrims must have still been asleep and we were able to access the local road to witness in solitude the Five Rathas in the eastern morning light.

Before checking out, we found a cute roof-top 'German Bakery' specializing in American breakfasts' served by an eager Nepalese waiter. We both selected the high protein, high carbohydrate meals -- eggs, toast and banana porridge for good measure. Sufficient fuel for the day's ride.

Weaving our way out of Mama, the din of the morning market reigned loud. But, just over the bridge and across the main town, rural India unfolded as we spun by; postcard perfect rice paddies being tended by women in their colorful saris with lily ponds scattered throughout. We saw large estuaries and small bays and intermittent glimpses of the Indian Ocean. Tree tunnels appeared when the sun came out but perfect clouds kept the ride relatively cool (about 80 degrees). While there were occassional cars and the usual buses, the traffic was dominated by ox-driven carts and slumbering men. Every 5-10 kays we found villages of palm-frond made homes. Almost all of these villages had been ravaged by the Tsunami in 2004 and signs still displayed the donors and organizers of each rehabilitation effort.

The country people wore a country friendliness uncharacterisic of those in cities. We became instant stars with the uniformed school children and the boys on their bikes. Fans popped out of either side of the road, bellowing their 'helloooo's' politely followed by their 'how are you's?' Most idolized California's Governor as somewhat of a rock star while all spoke flawless English (albeit somewhat limited). Food stalls with cold Fanta and bottled water were as frequent as you'd want them. In fact, in this stretch of land, there's really no need to carry fuel or a bottle.

The roads were Tour de France quality; not a bump, not a pot-hole, virtually blemish free. The smooth flat route mixed with the consistent north-south tailwind made the 100 kays an entirely effortless and glorious spin all the way to Pondicherry (or 'Pondi' as everyone says), population 220,000.

Although I never asked, I can say with absolute certainty, the Raj Lodge on Rangapillali Street, Pondicherry, India has no affiliation with the 5-star Raj Hotels. But, for 200 Rs/night, it had a large room on a breezy floor, 5 beds, a cold and very welcome shower thoughtfully located adjacent to the squat toilet. Besides all that, it was one of the only available rooms in town. As if India didn't already have enough people, Pondi is swarming with too many westerners who've spent too long in one of the many local ashrams. You can spot them a mile away, roaming aimlessly with an even more aimless blank stare.

A quick shower and walk about this former French town, we meditated a few moments at the main attraction in town -- the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. A large facility located off center of town, devotees of the philosophy come from around the world to study, meditate and apparently stay in Pondi.

Albeit a bit run down, the French colonial mansions, wide boulevards and seaside promenades definitely gives one reason to pause in Pondi for at least one night. More rice and masala and then off to bed!