Cycle Touring: It’s about problem solving

When I tell people about my various bicycling tours they usually blurt out, That doesn’t sound fun! They’re right. A lot of it is simply crazy. As a solo woman cyclist my tours are mostly about problem solving. One after another.

Take for instance my very first solo international trip. I figured England: they speak English! It should be flat! Not sure why I thought that. Maybe I was contemplating that saying about being led down the garden path. That phrase refers to being deceived, by the way. So I booked a flight.

I practiced taking the bike apart for the box and quickly reassembling it. I planned how I was going to get to and from the airport and manage check in and odd-sized carry-on, explaining to TSA what a spork is and that it isn’t lethal. Yet nothing prepared me for missing the international leg of the flight. The hurry of arriving early at O’Hare Airport had no impact whatsoever on the fact that my Air Canada plane would be late thus a stopover in Montreal turned into a layover. I asked if I could get the next flight out to London. Sure. That would be in 24 hours!

Really. They only flew one time a day. So I spent a night at a hotel courtesy of Air Canada. This did not assuage my fears. I had train reservations. Lovely hard-fought tickets for a night train to Thurso, Scotland where I was to begin my trip at John O’Groats. This was my first problem.

I spent the next day tooling around Montreal on my own, realizing how difficult it was to access GPS when one’s phone no longer received data. You have no idea how hooked you are to your phone for info and directions until—nada. I started off walking in the wrong direction, away from Saint Joseph’s Oratory. Once straightened out, I then had to work out how to leave the oratory and walk the paths of Mount Royal. One decision led to a panic-racked next decision. I made it back from my adventure in the city of Montreal with only minutes to spare before catching a hotel shuttle to the airport. I arrived in London a day late.

No problem. I’d just get new train tickets (a later article to detail how my travel insurance came in handy) and be on my way. I made it to Euston station for the 9 pm departure to discover that the Caledonian Sleeper didn’t run on Saturday. By now it was dark and raining and cars drive on the left! I rode away from the station and, of course got lost. I stopped at a Starbucks! Got WiFi and with my phone booked a hostel. I felt proud of myself. I was doing it. I’d worked through already several unforeseen hiccups. I got directions, made it to the hostel, carried my loaded bike up a flight of stairs, got buzzed in the door—only to be told I was too old for the hostel. This is ageism I stated, but they didn’t relent. I should have made them carry my bike for me and then tell me I’m too old. I rode around looking for a vacancy somewhere/anywhere. I found a slightly rundown family-operated hotel. Isn’t the pound like two American dollars? I was freaking out about how much this was going to cost (after paying for brand new train tickets without the advantage of advance reservation). When the proprietor answered the door and saw me with a loaded bicycle in the rain I didn’t give him a chance. I need the cheapest room you’ve got. He said he only had a triple available. It was as much as a Jaguar. I countered with half that amount—cash, I said.

Unbelievably I got in. So I spent the next day exploring London. That evening I got off on the train, now 2 days behind schedule. My entire trip I was playing catch-up with my itinerary.

All this before even putting on bike shorts. All this before encountering the expected hardships of touring: headwinds, rain, detours, sheep. Those were coming, but this is just an example of how one woman, alone ran the gauntlet of bike travel and persevered.

More stories to come.