People I've Met On The Road – Herman

Given the amount of time I spend long-distance cycling, it is hardly surprising that I meet so many interesting people on the road. This is the third in a series of blogs about the more remarkable of those individuals. Enter your e-mail in the 'Subscribe' box on the right and you will be notified of each new blog post.

Herman

During the 10,000 mile cycle ride I did with my son, one of the most spectacular places we cycled through was Laos. Heading north, away from the more civilised little capital of Vientiane, it was largely undeveloped, but for about three towns. The countryside was made up of verdant mountains with fairly good roads and almost no traffic. It is well known amongst long-distance cyclists for this reason. 

Sam takes a rest near 'The Hot Springs Place'

So little traffic, anything is a spectacle in Northern Laos

On the road Sam and I met a couple of other cyclists out in the wilds. One told us we simply must stay at a place he called 'The Hot Spring Place'. It was not marked on any map, however. Their glowing descriptions made me think it was something like 'The Hotel California' in the Eagles song, with a casino and 'pink champagne on ice'.

After hours of climbing through jungle in oppressive heat, there was no sign. No civilisation at all in fact.

"How will we know it when we see it?" asked Sam. "We don't have a name, no address – not even the name of a village."

"Oh it sounded pretty big and spectacular," I said. "Surely we couldn't miss it out here!"

Just as the sun started to sink towards the peaks we came across it. Thankfully, the Hot Springs Place was not what I had imagined. It was little more than a layby on the narrow mountain road.

The Hot Springs Place is only usually visited by intrepid cyclists

Finding the old lady who ran the place, we enquired about accommodation and were delighted to find there were two wooden huts left (out of five) with a double bed and WC/shower shoehorned into the tiny space. We parked our bikes, paid the old lady and scurried off down through the trees to the large stone-sided water tank surrounded by jungle. Here several other cyclists had just jumped in and were busy soothing away the day’s aches and pains in the steaming water.  Three or four local children, small and glistening brown, had climbed out and were sitting at the edge watching. 

The Hot Springs with roadside cafe nearby 

In this heavenly pool, we began chatting with a rather forthright German lady.  Sonja took pains to explain that the older man who had just gone back to the hut was not her husband or her boyfriend.

“I don’t have sex with him, oh mein Got, no!” she assured us, frowning. “And anyhow, it is not possible; he is having a bad back problem."

Herman was just a friend, she said, and a very annoying man to travel with indeed.  

After Sonja got out, Herman returned and seemed to us far from annoying.  As we soon discovered, he had cycled almost everywhere in Asia over many years, between his job as a landscape gardener back in Germany.  He proved to be a fascinating source of information and had a great sense of humour – especially, when pressed, about Sonja. It was obvious to us that he was completely exasperated with her and probably wished he had stuck with his usual habit of travelling alone. But although he chuckled to himself over my risque questions, he was reluctant to say anything. From the way he kept looking over at the path and into the surrounding jungle, I presumed she had a bad temper and a fearsome hold over him.

Friendly children queue up to slap your hand as you pass

After an afternoon sleep to get over our day of steep climbing, we awoke feeling hungry. It was early evening and nearby, above the general hums and screeches of jungle fauna, we could clearly discern sounds of merriment. On the opposite side of the narrow mountain road below us there lay a small cafe. Wandering over, we were surprised to find them serving pretty good food, well beyond the standard feu (Laotian thin soup), bush-meat and rice we had become used to.  Our cycling neighbours were there and after we had eaten Herman came over to share a few Beer Lao with us. Having enquired about our route, he reiterated stories we had heard from other cyclists about the terrible unsurfaced mountain roads ahead of us from northern Laos into North Vietnam.  But where we were now was certainly a great place and we were so grateful to those other cyclists for guiding us here.  

Loosened up by a few beers, Herman became great entertainment. After a few minutes I began to ask him more about his relationship with Sonja.

"Herman, as you are German and used to direct questions, I'm going to ask you – does Sonja have a mental problem?"

All of a sudden Herman doubled up on his chair, as if perhaps he had suffered a burst appendix or some such catastrophe. He looked up at us, gritting his teeth, his face purple. Clearly he was struggling valiantly to hold in his screams of agony, but eventually he could hold them no longer. In an instant the whole cafe full of people came to a grinding halt as Herman's scream rang out through the jungle. A pot crashed in the makeshift kitchen. Bottles of beer fell over and glasses dropped from the hands of drinkers. People stretched their necks and stood up to see what had occurred. But Herman was not screaming now. Herman was laughing. He was in pain because he was laughing so much.

"Herman, was machs du, dumkopf!" demanded Sonja.

"Nichts, Sonja, nichts – one of the cats surprised me or some such." 

After a minute or so Herman had calmed down. There were tears in his eyes as he sat there looking at me, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief.

"Are you psychiatrist?" he asked, finally able to speak again.

"No, no, a risk management specialist. I work in crisis management and disaster recovery." I tried to keep a straight face. 

Herman began to snigger again. It seemed about to grow. I looked over at Sonja who had also noticed the sniggering. Eager to prevent another outburst, I got up and placed my hand over Herman's mouth. Keeping his laughter inside was painful for him, the poor man. His body began convulsing. Sonja stood up.

"What is the problem with him?" she demanded crossly. Her concern was clearly not out of sympathy.

"A small epileptic fit," I said. "Do you have his medication?"

"Medication?" she shouted. "He is not epileptisch. Not so far anyhow."

"Perhaps it's just begun on this trip?" I suggested. "The stress or something."

"Stress!" she laughed. "Mensch, I am the one who suffers the stress – stress from his craziness! Got und himmel."

At this Herman's convulsions became more desperate – although this could have been because my hand was too tightly over his mouth and nose. Beads of sweat had begun running down his balding head. 

"Be calm Herman," I said gently. "Be calm. Now listen, I'm going to remove my hand but only if you're calm."

I felt Herman relax.

After a few glugs of beer and some deep breaths, Herman seemed to have returned to his normal downtrodden state. He continued looking at us, smirking now and then and shaking his head. 

"I tell you, my friends, be careful about taking passengers. I'm going to tell you how it happened, but first I need more beer." 

Herman signalled and three bottles of Beer Lao arrived promptly. Sonja looked over, worried what he might do next.

"So, this woman you see," continued Herman, more serious now. "She was visiting a house where I was working in the garden. The householder introduced us and told her I travelled very much in Asia. This woman (Herman stabbed his finger towards Sonja accusingly), she told me she always has the desire to visit Asia. She asks my number, then she calls me later to invite me for drinking. Like a foolish man I say okay. It's a common story I think. First she made me quite drunk, then captured me with nice behaviours.”  Herman fluttered his eyelids and stuck out his chest – with the addition of hand gestures, which we did not need. “This is how I am now broken down with this such difficult woman in Laos – a woman who is complaining from waking until sleeping. No – that is incorrect. I believe she is also complaining during her sleeping. Believe me my friend, many times I think death is better and wish to... to ride over the mountain ledge!”

Herman was crying again now, but these were no longer tears of laughter.

"I offer to pay her aeroplane to go home early but no! it is too easy. I carry all her luggages on my bike but she don't have fucking gratitude. Excuse me. I pity her dog, my friend, if she will ever have one. She like to give men pain, that is clear. Two husbands have suicide, she tells me so. What for hell shall I do?"

Despite Herman's tears, it was a wonderful evening. The setting as well as the company. My wife and I always tell people that the best way to know if you are truly compatible with a partner is to travel overland with them for a few months. I assume Sonja and Herman knew they were incompatible after only a few days. 
Should you be reading this Herman, please get in touch.

If you would like to read more about the cycle adventure from Ireland to Japan with my teenage son, click one of the Long Road Hard Lessons links in the right hand margin of this blog, or enter the title into your internet search box.

If you would like to read short stories by Mark Swain you can find these on Amazon, Smashwords etc. The paperback of Long Road Hard Lessons is available from Waterstones and other Bookshops in the UK as well as on Amazon UK.
Mark Swain on Amazon.com

Mark Swain on Amazon UK

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The Price You Pay

People I Have Met On The Road - 1

Homeless Cyclist
Most of my encounters with other cyclists are happy ones but a meeting with a cyclist last week left me with very mixed feelings.
Due to a break in the wet and stormy weather of the past three months, my cycle ride from my home in Canterbury (UK) the other day was the first since November.

It was great to be back on the bike, breathing country air, instead of driving around in a tin box and peering through a (wet) glass screen. The sun shone on me all the way to the coast at Whitstable and astounded me by shining the rest of the day. It cheered me up no end. I remarked upon this uplift in my mood when I saw another cyclist coming out of the bakers shop in the High Street. I had already noticed his bike parked outside and seen by the luggage that it was the mount of a long-distance cyclist. I could also see from plastic bags encasing his luggage that the rider had been struggling with the incessant rain.

"It hasn't been great weather for cycling, mate," I said as he arrived, pasty in hand. "Where have you ridden from?"

"Oh, just Dover today," he replied, shyly.

He sounded American but having embarrassed myself too many times before with this, I overcompensated.

"You a Canadian then?" I said.

"What? Oh no I'm from Montana – North America." His accent was now garbled – skewed by a mouth-full of pasty.

"So where were you before Dover?" I asked.

"Oh, Europe. Holland; Belgium before that; Germany before that; France; Switzerland; Italy." He thought carefully. "Slovakia before that I think; Hungary and Bulgaria; Turkey; Armenia." He laughed. China; I've been all over."

"Where are you heading now?" I asked.

"Oh, just somewhere to sit and eat my pie."

I decided not to point out that this was a pasty, not a pie. I think the English already have a reputation with Americans for being pedantic. I told him there was a bench just along by the library. I was going that way so I walked with him. Once we arrived I sat on the bench to finish our conversation. He had asked if I was a cyclist. I told him I was and had covered some of his route when cycling with my son to Japan in 2008. He asked me a lot about this and about the father - son dynamic. I asked if he had kids. He was silent for a moment. I assumed this was due to a mouthful of pasty, but his face looked pained – I mean more pained than it already did. He had a weathered and unkempt appearance and the aroma of damp dirty clothes overpowered that of the pasty.

"I did have kids," he said quietly.

 He had stopped eating. I felt I shouldn't have asked. I waited for him to say more but it was a while before he did.

"I had two kids – a boy and a girl. We were in a car accident. I survived but they didn't."

My stomach felt like it was screwing itself into a tighter and tighter knot. What should I say? I didn't want anything I said to be cliched. I thought hard as my skin continued to tingle.

"Was your wife – I mean the kids' mother in the car?"

"We're divorced now. She works – has a pretty high powered job. I was unemployed. I had problems. Alcohol dependency." He coughed as he said the last bit and spoke the words like he was hoarse. "She called me late morning and said her mother was sick and couldn't get to school in the afternoon to collect the kids. You see, I wanted to do something good for a change. Prove I could be reliable, so I said no problem... I would be there. I was nervous though – about other parents we knew seeing me there. Looking such a state and all. So I shaved and bathed and dressed right, then at the appointed time I drove over to the school. I was so fixated on doing it right, I got there an hour early."

He sighed deeply. His hands were clasping his knees tight. I could guess what was coming, though I hoped I might be wrong.

"So, near the school there's... there's a bar. I'd never been there, but I knew it was there. I thought I'd have a coffee but for some reason when I got to the counter I found myself ordering bourbon." He ran his hands through his long greasy hair and hesitated again. "I was late getting the kids. A teacher was waiting with them. I apologised and she looked at me funny. I suppose she smelled the drink. Well I know she did, because that's what she told the police. I don't understand how I could walk away from the accident and not them. They..." There was another long pause before he spoke again. "I never saw my wife again. She made sure she didn't even see me at the court. My family was devastated of course, same as hers. They all disowned me. The divorce was a paper exercise. That was nine years ago and I've been travelling ever since. I took my bike, my passport, some clothes and the little money I had and I just went. Nine years I've been on the road. All over the world and I don't know how to stop. I only know how to keep going – keep pedalling. I don't know what's at the end – but I can guess."

"You should get some help," I said. "I mean you didn't want your kids to die. It was an accident. Alcoholism does that. Didn't they offer you any therapy after the accident?"

"I felt like a criminal," he said. "I did very nearly go to prison... They thought I'd suffered enough. I suppose I felt I didn't deserve help – still don't. The price you pay – that's what I think, the price you pay. Best for me to drink myself to death, that's what I thought afterwards. I tried, I really did, but it wouldn't happen. I don't drink now. Just stopped one day. Maybe I'll get hit by a truck?"

"You should see a doctor," I said. "Tell them what has happened to you. They'll get you some help – I could come with you to arrange for you to see a doctor?"

"Thanks," he said, "I have an old friend in London. He wrote a couple of times. Someone sent on the letters to my solicitor. That's where I'm headed – the friend. Despite what happened he still wants to see me. The only one who does. A Christian, you see. Trying to earn his ticket into heaven I suppose." He laughed for the first time. "Works with unemployed kids I think. Anyway he'll help me out. I feel more ready to be helped now."

"Maybe you should take the train to London?" I suggested. He looked in quite a bad state. "I could pay for your ticket."

"You're too kind," he said. "No I like to ride. I find it healing. It calms me. Somehow when I'm cycling everything seems kind of... pre-destined. Thanks, it's been a real help talking to someone about it. I usually keep it to myself but... I don't know why but I just felt I could tell you. Is that okay?"

"Of course it's okay," I said. "It was a privilege to hear your story. It's very sad, but perhaps it was just... I don't know, meant to happen."

I shook his hand as he got up to go.

"I'll keep a look out for you on the road," I said.
He wouldn't be hard to spot - his bike was a mobile dustbin.

Then he rode away. He had a limp. I noticed that as he walked to his bike. He even rode a bit lop-sided. I waved. I didn't even get his name, I realised.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. 

In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.

Mark Swain on Amazon.com

Mark Swain on Amazon UK

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The Humiliation of Heavyweight Cycling

GUEST BLOG
by Alain Lenain

Alain is a somewhat fanatical cycling friend of mine. Like me he is a fan of long-distance cycling and like me he doesn’t like to see people carrying too much luggage. Unlike me he is a Frenchman. As we are both members of the touring cyclist hosting organisation https://www.warmshowers.org/ , we both regularly have people come to stay at our houses, on their way cycling through Europe. Many are the times that our guests stop off at a courier shop after leaving one of our houses, in order to post some unnecessary luggage home. Discussing the subject again recently, Alain told me about one particularly memorable case. I laughed a lot and so asked him to write a guest blog on the subject. Below is the result:

Alain Lenain will stop in a downpour - I don't know the French word for 'furtive'

You call it minimalism if you like, Mark, but I say it's just common sense!

I still think about David, a rather bulky cyclist, born in London living down-under, who came for his annual cycle trip to Europe. I was living in a French farmhouse at the time. David was aiming for Denmark where his daughter lived and worked.

David’s arrival in Paris had already been delayed by two whole weeks, courtesy of the Eyjafjallajokull volcano, but he had made it. He had got in touch asking me to put him up on his way up the coast of northern France. He was coming via another Warmshowers host in Dieppe, so I knew he had over 130 Km to cover to get to my place. As I often do, I arranged to meet him along the way. It was agreed that Le Crotoy would be about right. Not only a beautiful fishing village on the bay of the Somme, but also a great spot for lunch. You can get a moules-frites there for 8 Euro you know!

Having eaten my breakfast and allowed myself plenty of time to get to our rendez-vous, I contacted his previous evening's host to check that he had taken to the road. He told me that David was still having breakfast.

“Ah well,” I said, “we arranged to meet in Le Crotoy, we're sure to meet up somewhere along the way.”

Alain demonstrating baguette eating technique to an English cyclist

It's an easy ride to the Baie de Somme. Leaving behind me the rolling hills of the Boulonnais, I followed totally flat roads into Rue, a restful little town, and then through the marshy area around the Baie de Somme to Le Crotoy on the northern edge of the bay. This area is a haven for tourists, especially cyclists, both of the hardened and weekender type – there are cycle tracks everywhere. Le Crotoy is very small, so it isn't hard to find someone you're meeting, and yet there was no sign of David. My eyes turned in the direction of Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme as luckily there is only one way in from Le Tréport, which is the first town after Dieppe. I saw no touring cyclist.

Rather than just wait there (I find inactivity very tiring), I set off thinking to meet David further along the route.

Now this ‘Baie de Somme’ is large, and although Saint-Valéry is only 3 Km from Le Crotoy as the crow flies, it’s 15 by road. Still, it was pleasant enough weather and the cycling was far from difficult. And it was here, as I entered Saint Valéry, that I spotted, coming towards me, a rather massive apparition on the horizon. As it came nearer it became obvious that it was a touring cyclist. You can't miss them; they seem to be on a mission. The road was flat, long and straight so it took a while for him to fill my field of vision. And boy, did it fill quickly! To start with, he was large. He turned out to weigh just over 100 Kg. I looked at his bike. To me it had the allure of a donkey, with more bags, panniers and rolled packs than I've seen in a Decathlon!

We stopped and exchanged greetings. I was mindful that here was a guy who weighs 100 Kg, whose bike weighs a good 45 Kg with all that luggage, so I offered to take a couple of his bags; to which he responded that it would be cheating. “Fair enough, it's his decision,” I thought. In any case the weight to power ratio would be in his favour on the flat once he got going. Yet I knew hills awaited us not too far away. I tend to call them flat hills but they're not really! I reminded myself that we had 85 Km to cover and it was already lunch-time.

Side by side we cycled straight through Le Crotoy with no time to stop for lunch. We chatted as we meandered along the cycle track. David told me how he'd recently done the Melbourne 300 Km challenge in record time, yet in the same breath told me how much his right knee had been playing up. Again I offered to take some of his load from him but he refused, saying that the knee was alright now.

It wasn't long before those flat hills appear and, very quickly, the power to weight ratio tilted over. David was almost cycling backwards.

“Are there more of these?” He asked.

“No! It's all downhill from here,” I told him. It was a big joke to me; less so for David, I was soon to discover.

Now something had begun to puzzle me. How David had managed to get to Saint-Valéry all the way from Dieppe in record time I could not understand. Enquiring about his breakfast I discovered that he had left long after I had called his host. He had in fact been given a lift by his host, since he worked in Le Tréport, en route. A lift of around 30 Km!

“And that is not cheating then?” I said, engaging mouth before brain.

France is full of 'flat hills' - The Boulonnais Region

Prior to him arriving David had told me about his wish to go via Le Touquet and I had managed during our pre-tour e-mails to change his mind, because of the detour it presented between Dieppe and my home. In any case it was agreed that he would stay with us for a couple of nights so that on his second day we could visit Le Touqet without luggage. What was attracting him to Le Touquet I did not know. He just wanted to see it, because it's there, I can only suppose.

The last hill did more than make David cycle backwards. He walked it. For those of you out there who do cycle, and who take it reasonably seriously, you just don't want to do that, do you? Fortunately that last hill lead to my house. It is located in the heart of the Boulonnais which is all up and down. At last, David could take a shower, change and have a couple of drinks with us before getting acquainted with the rest of the household. Only, he didn't seem to be very happy. In fact this trip, which he had been planning for so long, was coming across to us as a chore. He was sticking to his original itinerary but his daughter had now moved on from Denmark, so he would not be seeing her on this trip at all. We talked about the Countries he would go through, but for his part it was all with a lack of any enthusiasm. He was missing his wife back in Melbourne, we discovered. This was his second marriage and the novelty had not yet worn off. She could have accompanied him, he said, but she just could not have kept up with his pace.

“Really?” I muttered to myself.

Discovering more, I think it would be fair to say that David’s trip had not got off to a great start. Firstly, he had been held up for two weeks by volcanic ash in the heavens. He had finally flown into London, and had gone on to Luton to stay with family before continuing to Salisbury, where he keeps his European touring bike. Really, I'm serious. His cousin keeps it for him so that he can ride it whenever he comes cycling in Europe. So, after an overnight stay, he had loaded it up and set off towards Portsmouth and a ferry to Le Havre. Well, he had hardly covered 5 Kms before his luggage rack came loose. One of his tyres then went completely flat and his derailleur refused to provide smooth changes. He had felt embarrassed at not having checked his steed before departing on a tour of Europe, so did not relish the thought of going back to his cousin's place. Consequently he spent a long time resolving the problems with the bike. This had made him late for the boat, forcing him to jump on a train. Oh dear me, not more cheating!

Not David, but another visitor AFTER he had already shed a substantial amount of luggage - this is not ULT!

David and I enjoyed our chat together. I discovered that Melbourne is totally flat. I also learned that his knee was no longer hurting and that he felt determined to see his trip through, despite missing his wife and home comforts. We agreed to cycle over to Le Touquet the next day for a leisurely ride – it's only just over 30 Km away with several routes to get there. As it was we took the more scenic (hillier) one.

There is a streak in me, I just can't help it! But he had broken the 300km Melbourne Challenge record, so without luggage he would surely be fine?

After few kilometres of gentle slopes towards Samer, we headed up the Blanche Jument climb, dreaded by even the most audacious cyclists in the area. For some reason David just did not like it. It was another walk up for him. The other seven climbs to Le Touquet were less daunting but they took their toll. More than I could ever have expected. We arrived in Le Touquet and pootled along the sea-front before visiting the town hall. I had resolved to take a flatter route back to the house, albeit a very scenic one through sleepy little villages and the forest of Boulogne.

The first sign of trouble on our way home came with David’s, "This is not my sort of cycling. I like to stop and look at things."

We stopped. A few kilometres farther on, I heard the classic, "How far to your place?" When someone asks that I know they are on their way out!

"Oh, about 30 Kms, I'd say,"  I replied.

"W H A T !"

David’s voice reverberated throughout the forest. Squirrels ran for cover and pheasants took off in all directions. I promptly reassured David, that I had been joking and we only had 10 Km left to cover.

Now, the previous evening, I had spent time chatting with David about ULT (Ultra-Light-Travel). It's something I believe I’ve managed to perfect over the years. People have a tendency to take more luggage than necessary – in case of what? Being invited to a dance? Going to a wedding? Going to a concert? A funeral? I've done all of these without extra clothes. So why did David carry six pairs of trousers and six pairs of shoes, plus eight shirts, three cycling outfits, a portable computer, charger, reflex camera, fourteen maps, water-purification tablets, a sleeping-bag, deodorant spray, towels? As they say in England "the kitchen sink an' all!"

As David would be travelling back to Australia via England, I had convinced him to lighten his load. So that first evening, he had filled a large black plastic bin-bag and it was agreed we would leave it for him at our son's house in Kent, from where he could collect it at the end of his trip.

The ride back from Le Touquet did not end well, by the way. He arrived back at my house a complete wreck and collapsed into a shower. Concerned, my wife soon had a hot meal on the table to revive him. David looked down at it, saying how appetising it all looked, then with a veil appearing over his eyes he apologised. He just could not find the strength to eat. Could he just go straight to bed? He asked. And with that, off he went. My wife and I looked at one another, feeling most concerned about the state of our Australian guest. We have had guests from many countries of the world and have yet to lose one, or even to disappoint one.

The next morning, we had to leave early. We were off to Kent. This David knew and it was agreed to make an early start. David did not look recovered when he arrived at breakfast.

“No, no, I’m fine,” said he, but his tone betrayed him.

Stay here, rest and just lock up when you leave, we proposed. No, his decision was final. He would make it. I did not dare tell him there were flat hills on the way to Dunkerque. Ah well, as we say in French "Il est adulte et vaccine." in other words he is a grown-up and has been vaccinated.

We spent our whole journey thinking about David. He had looked lifeless. We were convinced that he would be cycling into the afterlife, if there is one. Some time went by before we got news. But yes, he had collected his bin bag from our son's place. Yes, it had been him in person, not a family member. We remained unsure, however, for some weeks until we received an email thanking us for our hospitality. He had, it turned out, abandoned his plans to travel the Continent. He had gone straight back to the UK instead. David reassured us that he was fine. He was happily at home with his wife. Rather worryingly, however, he had put his name down for the next Melbourne bike run.

If you want to cycle in Nord Pas de Calais area, contact alain via his greeter site. If you meet him, remember, he's very hospitable but be careful not to let him take you via 'the scenic route' or across 'flat hills'.

http://www.greeters62.com/visite-pas-de-calais/portraits-greeters/Alain-Lenain.asp

Info on the region:

http://lapetitereineboulonnaise.e-monsite.com/pages/les-cotes-du-boulonnais/cote-de-la-blanche-jument.html