Tag: bikepacking

The King’s Highway Day 4: Dana Ecological Reserve – Wadi Musa

Distance: 24.38 miles

Time: 2:36:35

Elevation: 2,064 metres

Average Speed: 9.3 mph

Dana village was a long way down off the main road, which I was now regretting, but my anticipation increased as I approached. It was an ancient Bedouin village, with roots back some 500 years, perched over the precipice of Wadi Dana. Large parts of the village were now crumbling ruins, but the buildings that were still intact were now available as holiday accommodation.

My host, Malik met me on the main road into town and we squeezed down a small alleyway and between some crumbling walls to reach the small block that he managed. The main part of the building was over 200 years old he told me. Looking out over the abyss, it was already pitch black, yet I could tell that I was looking out over a landscape of epic proportions.

Being a wilderness area, I was surprised to see tiny groups of lights, out there on the horizon. ‘Palestine’ Malik explained, perhaps belying the region’s cultural heritage: looking at a map afterwards, it showed that the area on the other side of the Jordan river at this point, was now Israel.

Malik had dinner with him, bringing a large casserole dish out of a bag. Chicken Maqluba, a chicken and rice dish, he flipped over the casserole dish onto a plate, before giving me a huge portion. He explained that he had been involved in developing a cooperative with several families where they provided their home-cooked food for the guests.

Malik was an interesting man, a biologist at heart, he briefed me at length about the flora and fauna in the Dana Biosphere Reserve, an area stretching in altitude from Wadi Araba at 100 metres, all the way up to the hills above us now at 1500 metres. He also had a day job, as an ecological adviser, advising wind farms about their effects on bird life. He had completed a Masters degree at Karak university, so knew the road I’d travelled well.

In the morning, the traditional breakfast mezze was very nice, a couple of flatbreads were accompanied by hummus, baba ganoush (aubergine-based), yogurt, and the highlight, a lovely pistachio paste that Malik recommended I should mix with butter. Along with this we had a pot of tea: the previous night the tea had been mixed with ginger, but this morning he had used cumin, of which I was less keen. That didn’t stop me having 3 cups though.

After breakfast, I took my bike out onto the terrace and paused a moment to take in the sensational view. Certainly one of the best locations I’d ever found for a spot of bike maintenance. Looking at the chain, it was clear that it was as parched as the surrounding hillside, and a little lubrication might not go amiss. Drizzling on a little oil, I released the gear cable, committed to setting up the gears from scratch. Within a few minutes, I was starting to feel optimistic.

Gone midday, I turned the pedals a few revolutions as I started to leave the village, I was delighted to find that the lower gears were working well, just in time to get off and push. Not that that was easy on this gradient.

Beyond the first corner I got back on and started to make a fist of it, until the road ramped up again savagely, and having battled up the first half of the slope, I succumbed to the inevitable. This climb might take some time.

Reaching the Highway once more, the road continued to climb until it reached a new high point of 1550 metres, starting to descend shortly afterwards, I flew by excited children on their way back from school.


Not only were the low gears working well, but all the other gears I tried were working well too, this was the best iteration of the bike I’d managed to achieve on this trip, that was for sure.

Finally out of the village of Al-Qadisiya, where Malik and his family stayed, I rolled out into open countryside, confident that today would be an easier day. Moments later, I hit a small bump in the road, and instantly thought, is that wheel going soft?

Less than 5 miles in, and I had a puncture. Checking the inside of the tyre for the cause, I found a small sharp shard sticking out. But when I tried to remove it, it only seemed to make matters worse, as if I was teasing out fractured shards of the carcass of the tyre. Having covered the area with duct tape, I got back on the road.

Passing over an open plateau, with animated wind farms showcasing the breeze, I soon tiptoed around the edge of another wadi, mesmerised by the precariously perched village clinging to the other side.


Making it as far as Shobak, I was starting to feel like I was getting somewhere, when, after 16 miles, the tyre went soft again. Pumping it up as best I could, I managed less than a mile before I had to stop and change it. To make matters worse, one of the spares – which I’d repaired the night before – also appeared to have another hole in it, so I repaired that too.


Not confident in my aging puncture repair kit, and starting to run low on patches, I set off gingerly along the road. How long until another puncture? Uphill, downhill, a mile is a mile for a wheel.

After 24 miles – you know the rest. Signs had been informing me that Petra was still around 9 miles to go, and it was already around half past 4. I had just started to disassemble my bike to change the tube once more, when a pickup truck drove by and parked up along the road. For the umpteenth time today, the vehicle reversed back towards me, the occupant usually wanting to know if I needed any help, and where I was from…

But, on this occasion the man simply said, ‘Petra?’ ‘You get in?’ And that sounded good enough for me, I heaved my kit into the back and off we went.

Unable to engage my seatbelt, I didn’t get the reassurance I wanted when we started to go down the first hill. Instantly, the man cut the engine, pointing to his empty fuel gauge with a twinkle in his eye. Shortly afterwards, the rigmarole began again as he spotted a local man walking in the same direction along the road. Pulling over and then reversing back, the wily old man had another contribution towards his fuel bill.

Arriving at the hotel at 5 o’clock. It was too late for Petra today, but I had come too far to miss it now, I would have to go tomorrow.

The next day? Who knows.

The King’s Highway Day 2: Madaba – Karak

Distance: 56.05 miles

Time: 6:24:53

Elevation Gain: 6,236 feet

Average Speed: 8.7 mph

If I’d opened the curtains this morning, the first thing I’d have seen was heavy rain bouncing off the road outside, but as there were no curtains, I could already see it. Not ideal at the start of the hardest day of the trip.


I dawdled over breakfast, before ensuring to check my gears before I left. It turned out that the new style of Shimano derailleur was designed quite differently and I’d inadvertently routed it so that it was rubbing off the chain guide.


Having fixed the issue, I rolled out into the rain, the water teaming down the hill beside me as I made my way back towards the highway. Carrying on out of town, I passed through some small villages, dismayed that my higher gears were stuttering, fortunately my lower gears seemed to be working well and as I had the near 1000m Wadi Mujib to climb out of later, that was probably for the best.


Eventually the rain stopped and I made for a petrol station cafe, hoping a coffee might thaw me out a little after the onslaught from the chilling winds. The coffee was a thick spicy affair, that the owner lovingly prepared on his stove, he seemed keen that I should enjoy it, and thankfully I did.

Shortly after, the route left the King’s Highway, working its way to the top of a high ridgeline before plummeting down the other side into a complex dry arid landscape. Turning along the valley floor, passing workers’ camps along the way. Kids on their way back from school greeted me excitedly, one on a bike in particular, who pointed out the similarities of our travelling arrangements.


Back on the highway, the road climbed up and over to the start of the most challenging part of the route, the vast Wadi Mujib. The road disappeared over the edge, promising an 8% gradient on its way down. A stunning vista of the valley was revealed, the road snaking far below.


The descent was fantastic, only blighted by groups of dogs lurking alongside the barriers waiting to pounce. Luckily I was able to anticipate their assaults and get my accelerations in early, leaving them barking angrily far behind.


Down at the valley floor, just before I crossed the vast Mujib dam, my elevation dropped below 200 metres, bad news when I knew that I’d be returning to almost 1000 metres later on.


As I stood on the dam, the wind picked up once more, this time accompanied by rain, lashing down on my open panniers as I searched for some of the few food supplies I had, a packet of dates and, extravagantly, a tray of baklava. Then I reached the other side of the dam, and was stopped by the police.

It was a police check point, and he asked where I was from, and then where I was going. Karak, I replied, without conviction, given the conditions and the steepness of the opening pitch we were standing at the bottom of. I would have willed him to turn me back, but I knew that that would be just as bad…

Struggling up the opening slopes into the merciless headwind, I succumbed to the thought that there was no other outcome than cycling the last hour or so in the dark, but how dark is dark when the weather is this grim? My breathing was still laboured thanks to the cold and I was feeling more than a little concerned that it was after 3 o’clock, and the sun would set at half past 5, despite it not having been seen all day. I still had 25 miles to go, and of that, the first few miles included a 600 metre climb, and after that, the road continued to climb into a headwind that was gusting at over 35 miles per hour.


Finally, I knew the answer, I’d climbed out of the gorge at around 800 metres and was now ploughing on forlornly into the pitiless wind. As the the sunset call to prayer filled the air, the truth was it had already been dark for some time, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that I was now pedalling on into thick fog.

At the darkest possible stretch, on a blind uphill corner, under low overhanging tree cover, my front light went out and I took the first opportunity to get off the road. Resigned to hanging out for a while outside the Mutah University School of Agriculture, waiting for the light to charge, a voice called out from the small gatehouse, barely visible in the gloom.

Ahmed invited me inside his tiny booth, where he was huddled up near a small heater, waiting for some tea to brew. Pouring me a cup, I couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness, and drank it gratefully. Finishing it quickly, he poured me another and I settled back, happy to be waiting out the worst of the conditions in here.

Ahmed was the night watchman for the campus and he would be working until 8 AM, he was a father of 5, and was worried that his English skills might not still be up to scratch, having learned it at school, a long time before. He need not worry I assured him.

Soon a friend of Ahmed popped in, pouring us all another tea, before going to put another pot on. He shared out some biscuits which I accepted gratefully, but I ensured to fetch my tray of baklava before he came back with the second pot. Baklava from Madaba, Ahmed informed his friend. The friend headed off to the Mosque, for his 5th time of the day, and eventually I got back underway, eternally grateful for the ‘shai’ shared with these two men.

Back on the road the fog had lifted a little, so I was feeling more confident about the final 7 miles in the dark, but then the rain came on even heavier than before and my cadence lifted in protest.


Receiving a message from my host for the night – enquiring about my arrival time – I responded that it should be by half past 8. I only had two miles to cover, and that was 45 minutes away.


But then, as I careered down towards a bridge, a large drain cover covered the road, wide gaps much bigger than my bike tyres, lay in between the slats, there was nothing for me to do but hop as best I could, the back tyre landing heavily on the other side. Relieved to get across unscathed I slowed to lift the bike over the next one, and then realised I’d blown my back inner tube. It was absolutely pouring down, and less than a mile to go, but there was nothing else for it, than to change it.


At 9 o’clock, I rang the door of The Old House guesthouse, situated just below Karak castle on a rocky outcrop, drenched and covered with mud, I apologised for my late arrival, ‘it took a little longer than expected’, I said. Then my host uttered the immortal words, ‘would you like some dinner?’ Rustling up some delectable chicken shawarma and fries, while I was in the shower. Do you like Pespi? He enquired, before informing me that he was leaving me to it, ‘is there anything else that you need’? Thank you, no, I think I’ll be fine.

Iceland 2023: The Ring Road

Back in the Saddle…

When I cycled from Land’s End to John o’ Groats in August 2021, it was a targeted attempt to regain some fitness after a busy few months at work where sporting pursuits had fallen by the wayside. Since then, my main training focus has been running and the culmination of the last few years has been recent PBs in the 5K and Half Marathon of 18:37 and 1:25:40 respectively, and completing my first ever Marathon in Manchester in a time of 3:14:36. So, almost 2 years since LEJOG, I’m definitely fitter than I was, but I haven’t been doing much cycling, so it must be time for another adventure…

Last summer was largely spent working on bikes rather than cycling them, and I finally bought a new bike to replace my battle-scarred Thorn Brevet, the bike that has scaled the Atlas mountains and the Vietnamese highlands, while also rolling past the stunning Oregon coastline along the way. What is the new bike? Well, it’s another Thorn, a Club Tour, a heavier duty tourer with stronger wheels and wider tyres for exploring off the beaten track, perfect for its debut outing along the Fife Coastal Path last September.

So, when I started dreaming about where to travel next, my thoughts turned to the gravel trails of New Zealand and the dirt roads of the Carretera Austral in Chile, but, alas, I have a new job, and not enough holidays to spare, so I started to think of somewhere similar, but closer to home. An active volcanic landscape, sparsely populated, and only a two hour flight. That’ll be Iceland.

For those who have followed my previous tours, you’ll have spotted that I do like a good, old-fashioned, point to point route, they tend to look good on maps, and offer the greatest rate of change of landscape and culture. But, my second favourite is definitely a loop, and the fact that Iceland has a Ring Road that circumnavigates the whole country is almost as good! When I started to plan the trip I found statistics that suggested that the Ring Road still featured gravel stretches, and that as much as 30% of it could still be gravel. However, more recently I’ve found a more up to date source that shows that it has now been tarmacked all the way round, and now that I know that, it does make a difference to my choice of bike. And, with me being reluctant to take my new bike on a plane as of yet, the old one is being pressed into service once more.

What, then, is the plan? Well, I’ve booked my flights to Reykjavik, and I’ll stay in Reykjavik Campsite on the first night; storing my bike box there for when I return. Then, I’ll set off around the Golden Circle to Geyser and Gullfoss before joining Route 1 – the Ring Road – on the south coast, and following it anti-clockwise around the country. All in all, a distance of around 852 miles and with 16 days to complete it, it’s lucky there’s a lot of daylight…

Oh, and I leave tomorrow, so I’d best get packing!

Epilogue

I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City on Monday afternoon, and didn’t fly out again until Thursday, it seemed like an extravagant amount of time in which to get ready. But, getting a bike box was a priority, and with the ongoing Tet celebrations, the predominance of closed shops was a concern. I considered cycling around the city checking out the various bike shops, but I decided I was ‘aff’ bikes for the time being. Besides, after 3 weeks cycling, it was now a struggle to walk up stairs, I should probably go on foot. After checking for bike shops on Google Maps, the first I tried was 2 km to the north, no luck, I couldn’t locate the shop, if the map was right, it was closed.

Then I spotted two close together 2 km to the south of the hotel, so back I went. The first one was closed, but the second, Saigon Bikes was open. Not only that, but the owner addressed me in English and I could see some bike boxes hiding behind a well-stocked cabinet of shimano bike parts. With a huge sense of relief, I tucked the folded up box under my arm and wandered back to the hotel.

I packed up the bike, outside the hotel, on the Wednesday morning, and was baffled by a lady who grabbed the box, chucked my empty water bottles in it and started to walk off with it. ‘Hey I need that!’

In the afternoon, I made a belated attempt at conventional tourism by heading to the ‘War Remnants Museum’ an utterly harrowing experience in which the Vietnamese have showcased the horrors to which they were subjected by the American military. The accounts of entire villages being completely ransacked were appalling, with the elderly, women, children and animals all slaughtered, buildings – such as they were – torched, and chemicals poured over the landscape to destroy crops and vegetation.

One thing that stood out above all else were the words of North Vietnamese President, Ho Chi Minh, whose name adorned the road I had been travelling for the past 3 weeks.

I was glad I went to the Museum, but also glad I went at the end of the trip. For a country which has undergone such trauma in the not too distant past, the scars seem to have healed remarkably well, and the country I travelled through is a testament to the unbreakable nature of the Vietnamese people. The welcome I received, up and down the country, was wonderful.

On my last evening in Vietnam, I decided to have a special meal to commemorate my successful adventure. Opting for the local delicacy of Australian Black Angus Fillet Steak, maybe there is a limit to the number of bowls of Pho I can endure in one month…

All was set, all I needed to do now was make it to the airport for my 13:55 flight to Hanoi. From there I would fly out to Doha at 18:20 and onwards to Edinburgh. ‘Sorry sir, your flight has been delayed to 6:20 PM’ were the unwelcome words from the Jetstar Pacific check-in desk. When I protested that I had another onward flight from Hanoi at exactly that time, I was told to go to their information desk, and from then on it was all systems go. I had to retrieve my bike from baggage control, before returning it to them again – as it was also outsized baggage. By that time, the staff had transferred me onto an earlier, Vietnam Airlines, flight, and running to the gate, I made final boarding.

Back in Hanoi there was a brief interlude between flights while I talked to a Frenchman, Auguste, as I waited for the interterminal bus. He was backpacking around the world and had been to Capo Verde, Martinique, Brazil, New Zealand, Australia and South Korea amongst other places and was heading on to New Delhi, India. He’d been travelling for 13 months already.

My second check-in process ground to a halt as the girl at the desk checked the Baggage Allowance information for British Airways, whom I’d booked my Qatar Airways flight through. The BA allowance was 23 kg, the bike box was 25 kg, if it was a BA flight I knew they’d let me through. As it was, I was sure I’d read that the baggage allowance for the flight should be the Qatar Airways allowance of 30 kg – as they were operating the flight. Having been moved out of the queue, I wasn’t flying anywhere until I found the link on the BA app that stated that for Qatar Airways flights, their conditions applied, my bike was under the limit.

On the flight to Doha I chatted to the passenger next to me, a London-based Luxembourger named Adrien, who was delighting in the freedom afforded to him by solo travel. During his 2 and a half week trip to Vietnam, he’d received an invite to celebrate the Lunar New Year with a friend in Taiwan, and had absolutely loved it, ending up there for a week. I considered how much freedom I’d had on my trip, as I slavishly ticked off places I’d preordained whilst still at home. But, pushing hard to achieve my targets early on had allowed me the opportunity to take things easier during the middle of the journey, enjoying spending time with some of the people I’d met along the away, and ultimately, it was the people that made a trip like this worth doing. The stunning landscapes and fascinating culture were just a bonus.