1. Nothing happens without a bit of effort.
Sure, there's the success stories where people get what they want from life with minimal effort and a whole lotta luck. But for most of us, that isn't going to happen - we have to actively make it happen. I find this important to remember as I spend hours replying to emails, following up contacts and trawling through potential leads and ideas. I've discovered it's every bit as hard doing this as it was to force myself out of my tent and onto the bike even when the rain was pouring, snow was falling or I knew there was nothing on the road ahead apart from more unbridled misery (this is perhaps exaggerating a little!) But force myself out of bed I did, time after time, and eventually the effort and consistency of effort paid off.
"Much effort, much prosperity." - Euripides.

2. If something's gotta be done, then it's worth doing properly.
There's a lot of things that I should do right now that I simply just find incredibly boring (job application forms anyone?) But these things need to be done, and the eventual output quality is relative to the standard of work put in at the start. I've discovered that if I just accept that these need done and give 100% from the off they becomes easier, quicker and much less painful. When I was sick of cycling through horrible cities and along deadly roads I forced myself to make a list of why I was fortunate to even be there at all, and soon I was riding with a smile on my face and taking time to enjoy and appreciate the surroundings. It's the same logic for the 'real' world.
"Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm." Ralph Waldo Emerson

3.Mind over matter.
So what about those things that just can't be enjoyed? It's probably arguable as to whether anything really fits into this category but for me, I know that no matter how hard I try there are some things I just cannot embrace and 'do properly' as I suggested above. So what then? The most tedious task, the most unappealing activity or that extra bit of physical training at the end of a session can be overcome by nothing more complex than switching the brain into a different mode - I call it 'blissful ignorance' mode. Riding along monotonous roads for weeks at a time or up never-ending passes when I thought my legs would explode, I was only able to reach the end by forgetting about where I was and what I was doing, and transporting myself to somewhere else entirely. Usually a warm bed, or a nice restaurant stocked with all the food of my dreams!
Haruki Murakami has it right - "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

4. There is no prize for giving up.
I find it very easy to just give in and convince myself that it wasn't worth doing anyway. But that provides a certainty of no reward, and if it seemed like it was worth beginning in the first place, then there's a good chance it's worth finishing! I feel proud to have done all 14,000 miles of my trip without taking public transport (except for ocean crossings), but the temptation to give in and just catch a train or bus was always there waiting for me at the end of a bad day. If I had given in, I would have lost all the sense of achievement I now have.
"The best way out is always through" - Robert Frost

5. Just flippin' do it!
It's very easy to talk all day about what needs done and what might be the best way to do it etc etc. This achieves exactly nothing, so I've discovered! I will not get my book written, film edited or future expeditions sorted by telling my friends about them. I'm such a procrastinator that often I just have to physically lock myself in a room with what needs done and get rid of all the distractions. Sometimes during my ride I'd become far too comfortable on my days off, and keep extending the break for no good reason other than pure laziness - spending my precious budget on coffees and treats. My solution was to wake up at 5am, jump on the bike and ride off before I had a chance to second-guess the situation! I can recommend this method....
"Experience is the child of thought, and thought is the child of action." - Benjamin Disraeli

These are skills that I know I've learned and utilised on the road, and now it seems my task to make them work for me in London. There's no point in dishing out advice if you can't follow it yourself, and so I'll be actively bearing these in mind over the coming weeks. Keep an eye on the site for the results!

It's now been just over a week since I wheeled into St. Paul's Cathedral, London, and I've had some time to begin organising my thoughts for the future. Inevitably, my head is still very much immersed in memories, reflections and ponderings over the last year. Slowly however, plans are forming for what kind of shape the next few months might take.

The journey from New York to Hong Kong was, above all, a learning experience. In saying that, I feel that it is all still too fresh to really define exactly what those lessons have been. Each day that I wake and don't cycle down an unknown road brings more clarity, but there's still a way to go before I make sense of a lot of it. Of course there are also effects that have been developing since Day 1, and those I can pin down. The most important is that I sense I am much more driven, motivated and confident about what it is I am aiming for. Goals now seem clearer, and I believe I had a new sense of focus with which to chase these.

Undoubtedly I'll deem it necessary to reflect on the rest of the lessons I've learned in due time, and you will all be subjected to those contemplations on this very blog. But for now I'll give you a brief idea of what I'm planning on doing next. I've even split it into 3 points so it's nice and easy to read.

1 - I left NYC with the plan of making a documentary. That still stands, and I'm even more excited about it than ever. Soon I will be tackling the mounds of footage taken en route, and beginning the creative process.

2 - During my time cycling I became very reliant on my journal to document memories and feelings that could not make it onto video (along, of course, with those that did.) I found that writing is a very cathartic process for me, and I actually enjoyed it to such an extend that I missed it when I did not write for an extended period of time. It has been one of the many joyous pleasures of being able to keep this blog that some of you very kind readers have commented positively on my writing. Based on this, and some advice I have taken in the last week or two regarding articles I've penned, I've decided to perhaps have a shot at writing a book. Essentially I suppose it will be the book of the film - a book charting the people I met, their many and varied passions and interests, and my own journey amongst them. More to come on that as it happens!

3 - Finally, and currently the most advanced and concrete of the three, I am now giving talks based on my adventures from New York to Hong Kong. Primarily I am aiming at speaking in schools, initially around the UK. The talk is suitable for all school age children from 6-18 and combines educational content (relating to the curriculum), exciting and humorous stories from the road, and a keen message of inspiration - the power of what we are all capable of, and the importance of giving 100%. The talk is also available for groups and societies, and is tailored slightly to fit in with the focus of each recipient. If you are reading this and are interested in making a booking, please contact me at leon@leonmccarron.com, via the Contact Page on this website, or on 07850269193.

So that's almost where I'll leave you for now, but there is one more thing. I'd like to take this opportunity to say a huge, massive, all-embracing thank you to everyone who has followed my adventure over the last year. Your reading of my blog, supportive comments and insightful suggestions have consistently inspired and humbled me. I'd also like to thank everyone I met on the road - those who took me in out of the rain, fed me when I looked hungry (which was most of the time) and generally went out of their way to aid me on my way. I owe you all a great deal, and look forward to creating pictures and words for you to enjoy now that I am finished.

So I guess this is it! Considering I’m writing now from a comfy chair in a Canterbury coffee shop, drinking Americanos and eating a blueberry muffin, you would be safe to assume that I have left any ruggedness behind for a while and am currently embracing the easy life. But how did I get here? Well…

Last time I properly blogged I had just arrived in Hong Kong, and was feeling rather hollow. Going home was not something I’d thought about at all during my cycling, but it was always there as a reminder of what I had to be thankful for – all the comforts we come to expect. Now, suddenly as I faced this juncture head on, that carrot at the end of the stick seemed to be incredibly disappointing. There had certainly been a stick, for sure, but the carrot was fully a creation of my mind, and finishing seemed to bring no reward or relief; it merely left me existing in a situation slightly different to the one I’d been in previously.

As has happened so often before on my journey however, I was rescued by good company. I have learned there are few things in life as valuable as spending time with people who entertain, inspire and educate you, and I was lucky enough to find myself in just such a situation in Hong Kong. Just before I left New York I responded to a Tweet on my Twitter Feed from a guy called Rob Lilwall. For those who don’t know of Rob, his story is that of a complete mad-man – spending 3 years cycling (mostly alone) from Siberia back to England, covering parts of the globe that most people with a sensible outlook on life would avoid (Afghanistan, Tibet, Papua New Guinea etc.) I’d read his book, ‘Cycling Home from Siberia,' and watched the Nat Geo TV series by the same name. Fortunately Rob is of course not actually a madman, or if he is it is only in that sense of the ‘Great British Explorer’ – a desire to seek out adventure coupled with a conquering of fear, which is really something I think we should all aspire to. Through the almighty power of Twitter I’d connected with Rob in New York when he was visiting on a speaking engagement, and he was kind enough to make time for an excitable Irishman with a half baked plan to cycle to Hong Kong. Along with his wife Christine, an invite was extended for me to come and stay when I made it to HK, their new home, and so it was that I found myself waiting for them on Lantau Island.

Rob and Christine are working with ‘Viva,’ setting up and running an Asian office for the British-based children at risk charity. Despite their hectic schedules, they managed to spend a lot of time entertaining me, and by the time I left Hong Kong I felt relaxed and encouraged about what was to come next. The weather was pretty poor during my stay and so tourist activities were minimal, but I felt attaining a state of inner calm was a much greater achievement in the long run. With Lola boxed up, my panniers crammed into a survival bag, and my bike helmet bouncing around redundantly on my backpack, I checked in at Hong Kong international airport and began the long flight to Paris.

My time in the French capital was, in short, blissful. If I were to tell you full details of my exploits there I fear you would laugh me out of the room, mocking how boring I have become in such a short space of time and reprimanding me failing to fully explore a city which offers so much. My girlfriend Clare came to see me and we spent 4 days talking non-stop in cafes and napping when normal people were at work. This was followed by another 4 days with two of my closest friends, and these were spent in cinemas, bars and walking through the jardin d’Luxembourg. Rarely have I felt so at peace during a time when my life has so little stability.

On Wednesday the 2nd March I awoke Lola and called her back into action. We took some pictures at Notre Dame, watched the morning sun pierce the clouds above the Seine and headed north out of the city. My first stop was Amiens, another beautiful French city with a cathedral to take your breath away. That evening I rode to the train station and greeted Ruben, my riding partner for the next day. We had never met, although within a couple of hours it felt like we’d know each other for years. Ruben has been following my trip for quite a while now, harbouring plans for a long distance ride of his own. Through a mutual friend we connected, and it was truly liberating to have company on the road again. Cycling from Paris to London seemed like a stonking way to prolong the life I’d come to know, but I hadn’t accounted for my brain making the inevitable leap to what may happen next. As soon as I pedaled away from Notre Dame I realized that my head was already in London, and now I had to spend 4 days of unmotivated riding to catch up. Thus Ruben provided a welcome break from my own thoughts. I have been pleased to learn that I can be very good company to myself, however I have also come to know that I absolutely need regular time away from myself, so to speak. Otherwise I descend into mild madness, talking to myself and staring wildly at anyone who approaches unannounced. Hazards of a year of the road? Maybe.

That evening Ruben and I met Yuma, a Japanese student planning to walk around Europe sketching famous works of architecture. He carried with him little money, a small sleeping bag, flip flops and next to no common sense. I liked him a lot. With no French in his vocabulary, and his English extending as far as saying his own name I think he may be in for a tough time. But good on him, that’s a true explorer’s attitude I feel! Perhaps a little more preparation (or any at all) wouldn’t go amiss, but he was enthusiastic. Ruben too, was oozing passion for his dream of bike touring through Europe. I hate to say that I’ve become jaded with the life I’ve chosen, but I think to be honest in the last few weeks I have. I know however that this is only because the end suddenly appeared in sight, and once it was in the headlights I could see nothing else. Thoughts of home, family and the uncertain future swamped me.

-3 degrees Celsius awoke me early on my last night in France. Frost clung to my beard like icing, crumbling away when I washed my face in a fresh water river. I packed up my tent and ate two frozen pain au raisins that were stashed in my panniers. I shook my head like a dog to dry off, and brushed off any notions of how inappropriate this morning ritual would be once I return to normality. The channel crossing seems like it would be a momentous event, and nerves bristled down my neck as Lola and I wheeled into the belly of the ship. Any romance or emotion was soon cut short however when I promptly fell asleep, only waking to the shakes of a SeaFrance Official. ‘C’mon mate, shift, unless you want to go back to France!’

I didn’t – within minutes I’d be back on English soil, and less than 100 miles from the end.

That night I slept in Canterbury, and met in the morning with 4 riders who had responded to my online request for company to London. Martin, John, Fred and Ben escorted me out of Canterbury on the delightful backroads that make Kent such a joy. At Faversham Ben and I parted ways with the others, and the 2 of us continued along the busy and relatively boring A2 headed west. The last 20 miles were spend watching the capital grow around us, expanding and mutating into the colossus that eventually constitutes central London. 14,000 miles had led to this. The final 500 meters took me over London Bridge, through some side streets and onto Canon Street running parallel with the Thames. St Paul’s ballooned out over the surrounding structures, domination them like stone minions. We followed the road as it circumnavigated the cathedral and slowed to a stop in front of the monstrous gates. Just over the curb stood a welcome party – parents, cousins, friends, Clare…all here just to celebrate my safe return. Finally an overwhelming sensation. It had been a long time in coming.

 My day off in Macau was, quite literally, a washout. Waking to the sound of an argument in the room next to mine, I headed outside in search of a hot morning beverage. Within seconds I was in retreat, the heavens well and truly opening directly over the Rua de Felicidades (Street of Happiness.) No matter, there was a relatively comfortable bed back inside that I’d just vacated, and if I was quick it would still be warm. So I got back under the covers and went to sleep. There's no rules against going soft once in a while...

 The rest of the day was conducted with similar lethargy. I’d hoped to tour around on my bike checking out the remains of the Portuguese history in the city, but with the weather it wasn’t to be. So I satisfied myself with hopping between coffee shops, bakeries and the occasional restaurant for something more substantial and rice-based. I caught up on my journal, my sleep and most importantly my own thoughts. It’s been very hard to pin down quite how I’m feeling about finishing. There is definitely ambivalence – on one hand, my body and mind are in desperate need of a rest. But a return to ‘normality’? Surely not. For hours I brooded in a Macau café, mulling over ways that I could try and postpone the inevitable. Slowly however, a sense of calm descended with the rainfall, and I think I experienced a moment of clarity.

I’ve been lucky beyond words to have been on this journey at all. Having a loving family, an ever-supportive girlfriend and numerous other people (friends, I think they're called!) all waiting eagerly for me to return, actively wanting to see me again, well, that’s pretty special. And I’m more than a little excited to see them all as well. I feel this journey has taught me a lot of things, even if at this moment I can’t quite access what they might be. There is one thing that has sunk in already though, and that’s an appreciation of what I left behind when I set out on my bike all those months ago. It’s a cliché that we always take what we have for granted, and an extended break from those people and possessions really brings that to the fore. I feel very, very grateful for all that I have waiting for me back 'home,' and suddenly it doesn’t seem so tough at all to be finishing!
 

There’s also the excitement of what lies ahead in the follow up to this journey. Fist and foremost there is the film footage to tackle, and who knows what else in the longer term. I'm already scheming. But I’m skipping to far ahead. Suffice to say, while the rain soaked streets of Macau kept gamblers confined to their swanky casinos and travelers trapped in their hotel rooms, I was all alone having an epiphany at the corner table of a second floor café overlooking the Largo de Senada. And it was great.

Feeling much more enthused about what was to come, I was greeted the following morning by dry, if grey, skies all around. Cycling in Macau is rather akin to stepping inside a tumble dryer – all of a sudden you are picked up in a noisy, whirling commotion, and there is no option but to commit yourself to whatever direction it may want to send you in. Eventually, just as it seems you can stand no more, it spits you out on the pavement and the rumpus continues on it’s merry way. On Monday morning I was delivered in this manner to the ferry terminal, and, feeling rather glad to have survived one of the trickiest 3 mile rides of my life, I began the ordeals of getting on and off a boat, through customs and at various points up and down escalators and elevators. Lola seemed to have fun though, and soon we were aboard the TurboJet ferry headed for Hong Kong Island.

Initially there was no time to stop and contemplate my arrival – I was shepherded through immigration and it wasn’t until I’d found my way out onto the street (via a 6 story shopping mall connected to the ferry terminal) that I felt it. Hong Kong. How many times had I looked at these words, written them down, pointed at them on a map. Until now they has just been that, a casual turn of phrase thrown into a conversation about my cycling trip. But now, standing on solid ground, it appeared that Hong Kong does actually exist, and more than that, so do I – in fact, we’re both currently existing in the same space at the same time. It’s not that I didn’t think I’d make it, more than I never considered what would happen when I did. Well, this is it.

 It was, mostly, underwhelming. I stood by the water for an hour or two watching the ferries come and go. I rode up and down the street to give the reality of the whole situation another thorough test. Apparently, I had just ridden a bicycle from New York to Hong Kong, and now I’d have to deal with the consequences.

Luckily, I’d begun that process in Macau and was, despite the anticlimactic nature of the actual arrive on the island, excited about the prospect of spending a week at my ‘destination.’ The finish line, I suppose. I caught the afternoon ferry out to Lantau Island where I’m going to stay for a few days and catch up on rest and relaxation. At this point in time I’m feeling more and more comfortable with the notion of returning home.

 All good things must come to an end, and what better way than with a week in one of the most exciting cities in the world?!

And to finish this post, a nice 'before' and 'after' picture show. The first was taken the night before I left New York City- spot the fear in my eyes. The second is immediately post-arrival in Hong Kong. If needed, you may use these pictures as cautionary visual devices to those wishing to disappear off somewhere on a bike.

From Dongxing I made my way east through the relatively small suburban sprawl of the city. The place was dead – locals were still enjoying the benefits of a national holiday. Officialy, the Chinese New Year had begun a few days ago, but it would be the start of the next week before the populace would recommence working duties. The country was essentially on pause mode, a bizarre experience in vast metropolis spaces. The soundtrack to my departure therefore was provided not by teeming streets animated by business and recreation; rather occasional firecrackers would explode erratically in some unseen part of the city sounding for all the world like machine gun fire. All in all, it was a rather unsettling morning experience, and so I was relieved to make it into the safety and seclusion of the countryside.

The rest of my first full day of cycling in China was dominated by the ‘disappearing road’ trick that was played on me with frustrating repetition. Around half of my 110km ended up being ridden on loose gravel, country tracks or sandy residue left over from some unfinished construction. Arriving into Qinzhou was a relief. Navigation hadn’t been completely smooth, I’d got considerably lost as least twice but through luck, judgment and providence I inevitably ended up on the correct path again. Once more I was thankful of the compass that sits atop my handlebar – countless times it has saved me by pointed me in the right direction if not necessarily the exact road.

 Pronunciation was also an issue – Qinzhou seemed to be ‘Chin-jew-ah’ and I found it easier to just point at the Chinese script on my map than attempt to say it correctly when asking directions. Still, plenty of time to improve. My attempts at finding a place to stay were aided by Chenyiyan, an extremely helpful girl who found me miming my way through a conversation with a guesthouse owner. Her English was excellent, and she was able to find me a nice place close by that was within my budget. The added bonus was that I needn’t embarrass myself to any further people with my ever unpopular ‘need a room for one night’ act.

 The next day provided similar road surface issues, but was concluded with an evening at the seaside. Beihai is one of the four most livable cities In China, according to the internet, and it was certainly very pleasant for the few hours I was able to spend there. There is a strange tranquility that comes from watching the sea lap around one’s feet, the tide drawing circles around toes and crafting sand into patterns around the imprint. I watched fisherman bringing their boats in for the evening, and families gathering hurriedly together after the working day to spend the remaining hours of sunlight on the beach. Time seems to slow down the closer we get to the ocean; for me it is one of the great places of neutrality in the world. I forgot about maps, roads, language barriers and even bikes. My mind waded into the deep and washed itself clean of worries and discontent.

We should all go to the beach more often!

My road now was the G325 and it led me through small settlements and large areas of agriculture until I reached Zhanjiang, the last big city of Guangxi province. I found myself back in the middle of a huge urban centre after some days in the relative wilds. It surprised me slightly that I had no interest in partaking in any of the benefits that this offered. I ignored all the roomy restaurants with their Western menus and instead went on the hunt for my usual ramshackle roadside ‘diner’ – usually a couple of tables, a few stools and an elderly woman scrubbing vigorously at some ever-grimy pots and pans. True to form, this was what I found a few blocks from my guesthouse, and again as usual this type of establishment provided me with the most fulfilling platter of rice and vegetables that a hungry vegetarian cyclist could wish for.

Guangdong announced itself with a marked improvement in roads. The province is home to some of China’s major industrial cities such as Guangzhou and Shenzhen, and as such the transport networks seems to enjoy much great budgetary attention than that of Guangxi. I was still following the frustratingly indirect G325 as it shot north for a few kilometers, dive-bombed south and then returned to the same east-west plain as it been on before all the shenanigans. One downside of the road surface improvement was that it discouraged me from investigating alternative country tracks. At this stage as I approached Yangjiang, another city with a multi-million people populace, my mind seemed to have deserted my body and ridden ahead to Hong Kong. I wasn't concentrating on what was around me and I spent hours thinking about the ‘finish line’ It was clear as I pedaled apathetically into Yangjiang that inevitably I had become overwhelmed by the notion of an imminent ending to what had now been my life for such a long time. It appeared that the road from here would be mostly passing through industrial areas anyway, so it seemed to make sense to delay no further.

The next day I rode over 100 miles, which I hadn’t done in quite some time. A headwind battered me all morning, slowing progress to a devilishly frustrating snail's pace. After midday however it dropped it's guard slightly and I took offensive action, pumping the pedals in a way I’d almost forgotten how to. That night in Xinhui I ate and slept with a deep content – one of the beauties of traveling by bicycle is the many aspects there are to enjoy, if not necessarily at the same time It is very rewarding to remember the feeling of what it is to excel athletically, and push your body into a zone which can only be reached by having done the same thing for months and months on end.

I called time on my ride in China ‘proper’ with an uneventful, if also unenjoyable, cycle through the cities and suburbs of Jiangmen, Zhongshan and Zhuhai. This was it; the border crossing out of the mainland. Attached to the south of the city of Zhuhai is the Special Administrative Region (SAR) of Macau – a former Portuguese colony and now gambling Mecca for the Chinese. From there I could catch the ferry headed for Hong Kong just 45 minutes to the east, and I’d be finished. Whatever that means. I stamped out of China, into Macau and rode to the cheapest accommodation in town – a warehouse with cubicle ‘rooms’ separated out by sheets of iron. Home sweet home for a night or two while I prepare for the inevitable scoot across the water. Suddenly my nomadic lifestyle had taken on a very finite and limited time scale. A return to everything I’d rallied against was coming upon me. I needed time to mull this over.

I needed a drink!

Ah, the old lapse into blogging delays! A quick update for a start, to keep you all informed. Firstly, I am now in China! I crossed the border from Mong Cai in Vietnam to Dongxing in the PRC. China is, so far, mindblowingly Chinese. By that I mean it instantly felt like China even though I've never been here before - there is an atmosphere that floats in the air like a foreign accent, a gait of the people that is quite unique. That said I haven't been here very long, but even just the scale of things is impressive. Dongxing is very small by Chinese standards, but even so the size and quantity of buildings is a sight to behold. Already I have encountered great hospitality - an elderly gent in the street gave me a map of the Guangxi province, while some giggling girls in a pharmacy managed to call a friend who spoke English and could direct me to a cheap guesthouse. I still, honestly, don't really know where I am, how to get out of here, or which roads I'm allowed on - but I feel positive about it. If everyone is as helpful as the folks here, I'll have no problems.

Which brings me, briefly, to my Vietnamese experience. I will post the details of my travels in full soon, but suffice to say I crossed the border from Laos and arrived in the central coast, at a city called Dong Ha. From there it was 6 days ride along Highway 1 to Hanoi where I spent a week, then 2 days to the famous Halong Bay and a further 2 days to the border city of Mong Cai. In short - I did not have the best time in Vietnam. I found the ride north from Dong Ha miserable at best. Hanoi was wonderful, but my desire to stay was fueled as much by a reticence to go anywhere near the Vietnamese highways again as it was by a love of the city itself. Highway 1 was devoid of character in the northern section, and the towns and cities along the way seemed only to exist in order to find new and exciting ways of parting me and my money. I won't go on much more because I will only complain, I think the best I can say at this stage is that my Vietnamese experience is one which was acutely coloured by the stain of circumstance; that is to say the routes I took and the people I encountered were not perhaps the choices one would make when looking for the 'quintessential' Vietnam. That section of Highway 1 for instance is rarely visited by tourists - there is, in my opinion, nothing to see along it north of the de-militarized zone, and to subject myself to 6 days of horrendous traffic, bad road surface, overpowering headwind and nothing else but bitumen and rice paddies -well, in a way I was asking for it.

So, hold tight for that blog post, especially those of you who revel in reading of misery! The other thing I should mention at this stage is...
I'm coming home! Yep, it's nearly all over. Southern China is essentially the final section, leading as it will to my destination of Hong Kong. That's still a few weeks off, but suddenly the end is in sight, and a return to all things 'normal' must become a reality. I have plenty of thinking to do about that one. I can't face coming straight home though, so I'm going to fly from Hong Kong to Paris, readjust there and then ride from Paris to London as the very final stage of my journey. I'd love to organise teaming up with a few other riders for the Dover to London stretch - if you're interested in riding that with me get in touch. It'll be on a Saturday for sure, and I'll get a date asap. Think early March.

I'll update again soon, but from now on it'll all be on here - no Facebook, Twitter (or YouTube!) here in China! For all things Leon-related, this is the place to come!

No miraculous change of surroundings came upon me during my last 56km in Cambodia. The road trailed ever onwards, flat and straight heading due north against the wind. At a rare roadside stall I found Pierre and Marion, a French couple from Paris who had temporarily traded in the backpacking lifestyle for the 800km cycle between Phnom Penh and Vientiane. They were easy going and very likable, and so we teamed up to cross the remote border into Laos. Heeding warnings of travelers who had crossed our paths we were ready to do battle against the stamp wielding officials, apparently all to ready to refuse entry unless they pocketed a few dollars on the sly. Leaving Cambodia was fine – I was asked to pay a dollar, but smiled dumbly and pointed at my visa saying what a wonderful time I’d had in the country. A busload of groggy looking white tourists had pulled up behind me, and licking his lips the guard waved me on in favour of bigger prey. I heard him extorting $3 from the first unlucky passenger to step into the arena.

Now in no-man’s land, the problems arose.  Pierre gave his passport to the Laos official, who immediately asked for $2. Ready for him, Pierre pointed at the visa and smiled, saying that no thanks, but he had everything in order already. The man didn’t smile back. ‘$2, or no stamp,’ was his line, and he repeated it with vehemence to every effort the three of us could muster. We waited thirty minutes, watching as he closed the window, retreated out the back and took up residence on a shady hammock. More minutes ticked by. Pierre spoke to another man in uniform, who repeated that we either paid $1 each or we couldn’t go through. Ah ha! It was working, down to $1 from $2 and I was sure that within another 30 minutes they’d give up and let us through. At 11.45, now nearly an hour after our initial attempt Marion called out to us. Her guidebook said that between 12 and 2pm all tourists were subject to a further $2 ‘overtime’ fee. It advised that this could not be disputed. We put it to a vote. Wait two hours, or pay the dollar each. It seemed an easy decision really, but I always feel so frustrated at unadulterated shakedowns like this. However I also didn’t want to wait any longer in the midday heat, and we all knew it was still a fair ride to the town. Enjoying the rare pleasure of company on the road I gave in, and we all handed over the money. Criminal A was still asleep in his hammock, so Criminal B pocketed the money instead. I felt a little satisfaction that our primary adversary wouldn’t benefit.

 Cycling out my irritation, we made up for it with a trip to the Khone Phapang waterfalls – the largest falls in SE Asia. Scrambling around on the rocks was the perfect tonic. The problem for all of us was that we still only had US Dollars, and were now in a country which was trying very hard to promote it’s own currency, the Laos Kip. There was no border town at which to exchange a few notes, and so we rode onwards getting increasingly desperate. I bid farewell to Marion and Pierre, who were heading to Si Phan Don, or 4000 Islands as they are commonly known – a large grouping of islands in the Mekong which attract travelers by their peace, quiet and tranquility. Not a bad deal for sure, but after having spent far too long in Phnom Penh wrestling sickness, I was still not in the mood for lying around in a hammock. The dilemma was that I knew I could change money on the islands, but at $8 for a round trip, it really wasn’t worth going there just to spend one night. I made a decision to keep riding, and hope for a town on Highway 13. It was to prove a bad choice.

That night I found nowhere for my money needs, and no guesthouses. I camped among the trees less and 500m from the highway, and ate into my dwindling supply of emergency bananas and peanuts. A poor dinner by any standard. The next morning I found ants happily infesting my one remaining bag of banana chips which I’d saved especially for breakfast. Twenty minutes of picking ants off each chip individually grew tiresome and was unrewarding, so I abandoned the rest. The saving grace was that I still had two litres of water, but I needed to find a money changer, and fast.

 The highway was deserted – each small gathering that may have constituted a village had  no one willing to take my $20 notes – I was in turn frowned upon and laughed at. I rode unceasingly onwards. After 80km I had still not eaten anything of substance for 36 hours. I’d been able to fill water from a well but was beginning to run low again. My saviour came in the form of Dutch touring cyclists, just at the moment I began to fear the situation was more crisis than inconvenience. They were coming from the north, and I asked them breathlessly about banks they may have passed. None since Pakse – another 65km. That wasn’t the news I was hoping for. They must have sensed it, and without hesitation I was handed 37,000 Kip from their handlebar bags. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ they dismissed, ‘it’s only a few euro.’ Technically they were right, but to me it was a fortune. They wouldn’t accept anything in return, and merrily rode onward. I stowed my funds deep in my wallet and sparingly doled them out during the remainder of the ride – an orange here, some banana there, careful not to spend my loot with abandon. I made it to Pakse and made straight for the first currency exchange booth I found. All was well again, and I ate like someone who had not seen food in weeks. I was lucky though, and felt foolish for taking such a chance. I was sure that it’d work out, and I still think I’d have made it to Pakse, but it would have been a real struggle. It’s not worth taking these chances, and things could’ve turned out quite differently – water was my main concern and had it not been for the well I would have certainly been in trouble. I reflected on it all over a BeerLao. Perhaps I was growing arrogant. I concluded that it helps to be brought down to earth once in a while. Analysis complete, I decided to take the next day off and make up for a day of lost eating.

 Just as quickly as Phnom Penh had become a haven of relaxation, it changed to a prison from which I longed to escape. Two days into the New Year, I got sick – something I had mercifully avoided during my whole time cycling. Now it had caught me. I lay feverish and weak in my windowless room for 3 days. Kindly friends came to check on me, but in time had to depart on their own journeys and I was left to stare into the green void of my lime coloured walls. I hated that colour, and I especially hated the little pictures of fruit stuck to the wall in attempted decoration. Twice I thought of shouting at the watermelon, the leader of the glittery sticker gang, but couldn’t muster the energy.

I couldn’t bear it any longer, and with the fever dropping to a more manageable level I heaved myself out of bed on the fourth day and back onto my bike. I had eaten only one meal in over 36 hours and that hadn’t exactly been a success. Joining Kevin and Lars on their last night in the city we went to a pizza joint, where Kevin and I thought fit to order the Phnom Penh Happy Pizza.
‘How happy you want it?’ asked the waiter.
‘Eh…’ We looked at each other.
‘Regular happy?’ I offered. Was he going to make a face on it with toppings? Lars looked at us in pity, and leaned towards us. ‘He means how much marijuana do you want on it!’ ‘Really?!’ I ask, very much not expecting this. The waiter nods enthusiastically. Kevin is just as perplexed as I, and we hastily change our orders. Vegetarian will do just fine.

 Nonetheless, my stubbornness won out, and by 6.30am I was back on the saddle and into the heaving throng of Phnom Penh’s morning traffic. Within 5 kilometres of leaving my guesthouse I had seen two accidents, the second quite serious with two motos colliding head on, and had missed my turn off for the bridge. I somehow got turned around on the riverside road and joined the crush heading back into the city. The first 30km I rode on pure adrenalin before reality inevitably caught up with my struggling body. Legs turned pedals on pure memory alone, and I blanked out thoughts of what would happen if I fainted on this road. Forcing down some peanuts, the least offensive food I could think of for my system, I mechanically moved forwards. I knew this road – I’d ridden the 80km section from Skun to Phnom Penh on my way south – but going north in such a dire state made it seem a different beast. The slightest of inclines grew to enormous peaks; the greeting of roadside children pierced my skull so hard I had to shut my eyes. At 2pm I wobbled into Skun, checked into the first guesthouse and collapsed on the bed. I felt…better? Yes, better – perhaps cycling 80km was not the wise thing to do, but certainly getting out of the airless room in Phnom Penh was necessary. A few hours later I managed some rice, and slept soundly for 14 hours.

There is never a better morning to wake upon that that which follows a period of ailment. I bounced out of bed and greeted all I met with a disposition much too cheery for 5.30am. They looked at me warily – crazy foreigner. Scoffing banana chips, I pedaled merrily towards Kampong Cham. It was only 50km – I’d planned to reach it in one day from Phnom Penh before the illness struck. My stay there was spent completing recovery –eating fried eggs at the café, lying on my huge bed in the grand Mekong Hotel, and walking the streets once more enjoying the sights and sounds of a provincial market. Time in the city was good to me – I met a French family pedaling around SE Asia and home schooling their two young children on the way. I also ran into a Belgian rider touring on a Santos bike. We exchanged stories of how our trusty steeds had flawlessly carried us over many kilometers, complaining much less than us. The Mekong Hotel was expensive by my budgeting - $7 – but certainly the grandest accommodation where I have yet had the pleasure of laying my head. Sitting imperiously on the banks of the Mekong, the inside appears even bigger than the formidable exterior. Corridors stretch seeming for miles, and a walk from one end to the other might constitute a reasonable afternoon stroll.

While my mind was rid of all illness, a few demons still lingered in my stomach. One more easy day I convinced myself. All I wanted to do was get on my bike and ride, having felt cooped up for way too long. But another day to regain strength would only benefit me long term. So I spent the morning eating multiple breakfasts followed by the most delightful 40 kilometre cycle along the west bank of the Mekong. Half was paved, running through rural settlements and the remainder was a fine dirt; pleasant for cycling as it wound through equally friendly villages. I slept by the river, and took the morning ferry across to the east where the roads became less agreeable. 40km of rough stones, dirt and swirling dust made for painstakingly slow progress, but the scenery was certainly worth the effort. Somewhat surprisingly, this section along the banks of the Mekong is predominately Muslim – the only such area I have seen so far in this overwhelmingly Buddhist country. Men in prayer caps came and went from mosques, and women with covered heads shyly smiled at my unusual disruption to their little town. I was in good spirits, feeling like a victor over disease and illness. ‘Hello!’ shouted kids, on average at least once every two or three minutes during the day (as per every day.) ‘Where you go?’ ‘Where you from?’… ‘Money, dollar?’ I wasn’t thrilled with this last question when it came, but it was infrequent enough and some of the children seemed so incredibly excited to see me pedal by that I couldn’t help but smile and wave every time.
‘Hello! Whatisyourname?’ shouts a boy of about 8, although he struts like he is in his 20’s, leading a pack of similarly aged kids through a rice field.
‘Hello! I am Leon, rider of bicycles, conqueror of dirt roads, eater of banana chips!’ I roar back.
There is suddenly silence. They stop and stare, mouths agape. Perhaps I have gone too far.
I beat my chest and speed by. That’ll give them something to talk about.

More rough roads followed, now with added roadworks and as the direction veered away from the Mekong I became less thrilled with the conditions. I covered my eyes with sunglasses and used a Buff to pull over my nose and mouth, but still the dust found it’s way through. It was everywhere, and by evening I had a hacking cough. My lungs felt like I’d smoked for 20 years and I was only too happy to see the paved road leading into Kratie.

 Kratie provided only one function for me – a good bed to rest up for the next day. This was the day people talked about. I have learned there are certain roads and paths, which become infamous among cyclists, and the stretch between Kratie and Stung Treng to the north is one of these. At around 145km long, it is said to be desolately empty and devoid of the usual roadside vendors hawking snacks and water. There are no guesthouses on the way, and a night in a tent would prove equally unsuitable due to the barren land all around. Riding north adds the additional challenge of a brutal headwind making speedy progress impossible.

For me 145km is undoubtedly quite a long day, but certainly not a distance that would put me off trying to ride it. A headwind is an annoyance for sure but if the plains of Iowa have taught me one thing it’s that nothing can ever be as tough as riding west into that wall of howling gale day after day. What worried me more was that every cyclist I had met going north was either taking a bus past the stretch, or had already done so. The only reports I’d heard of people riding it were on the Internet. It seemed like a challenge had been set, and so at 6.00 am I rode out of Kratie with darkness still resisting the approaching sun.

By the time I reached Stung Treng I’d come to one conclusion. Many cyclists do not avoid this section because they don’t think they can make it – they do so because it is miserable and they want to enjoy themselves. I understand this now. I was never in any doubt that I’d get to Stung Treng, but after 9 and ¾ hours of battling wind and riding through a post-apocalyptic wasteland, I wasn’t having a lot of fun. Many people take the sensible approach that there’s no point in doing it just because it is there. I think however, in a strange way, I like this, in an after-the-fact sense. The time riding was almost completely devoid of pleasure, but that evening I felt wonderful. My rice tasted better than normal and I had a sense of accomplishment that I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Perhaps if I hadn’t promised myself that I would avoid public transport except in cases of dire emergency I would have considered an alternative, but I feel now that given the choice again tomorrow I would do the same. The good and easy times for me are made all the sweeter by the tough – and drinking a can of Angkor beer by the river by the light of the moon I relaxed with a deep sense of satisfaction.