So, I was writing this post in the week after my July cycle trip 'round Ireland was over, but the draft got lost and I never finished it. Now's as good a time to dust it off as ever.
If you haven't already, you can start reading from the beginning of my cycle trip, Day 1, here. Or, navigate in the sidebar over here to July 2012, and have a gander at those posts ----->
I think my cycle trip around Ireland was one of the defining moments in my so-far-still-short life. It taught me a lot of things. Self-reliance. Independence. How strangers can be genuinely friendly (but also genuinely creepy--so trust your instincts). I got to know myself in a way I hadn't yet, simply by spending so much time alone with myself. I started swearing like a sailor (cycling in traffic for many hours a day will do that to anybody). I was immersed for an entire month in what very well might be the most beautiful country on Earth. I broke free of a reliance on cars, petrol, and public transport, and was essentially homeless for almost 30 days, never knowing where I would lay my head the next night--but never being worried about it, because I had all the essentials for life (except food, which was always plentiful in each town) strapped to the back of my bicycle.
Even though I haven't really gotten on my bike for more than short trips since I've moved back to the States, I will never forget how important it is to me, how it makes me feel, how amazing it is to be pedaling into the magnificent unknown. I'm planning on doing a much longer trip across America this summer. And I plan on blogging daily for that, too!
Speaking of blogging... I also learned a lot about writing, storytelling, and self-discipline as I wrote one blog entry per day on this trip. I'm really sad at how I've let my blogging lapse since then, at how lazy I got almost immediately upon my return. But I'm really proud of the posts I did make. It maybe got a little repetitive, starting with breakfast each day etc., but I got some really great sentences and paragraphs out, some nice poetry and some nice stream-of-consciousness moment captures, so that makes me happy.
I've grown soft and complacent since returning to America, but I haven't forgotten what it means to Jam Everywhere, and I certainly don't intend to settle back and watch the rest of my life spool out behind me into oblivion while I sit on my arse and do nothing with it.
Without further ado.
----
Here is my Awards Ceremony for the various aspects of the trip itself...!
Best day's cycle: either Westport to North Mayo (most peaceful), or when I was cycling on country roads thru Co. Sligo. Runner up is cycling from Sneem thru the Black Valley to Killarney, in the brilliant sunshine.
Worst day's cycle: Tralee to Kilrush. Shite weather, hardly anything worth seeing along the way, busy gross road the whole time, cold foggy ferry ride.
Most dangerous stretch: whenever I was going downhill on day three in the lashing rain
Favourite stretch of road, if there had been no traffic on it: coastal road into Larne in Northern Ireland. Starts somewhere after Cushendall.
Favourite stretch of road, as is: Sneem to Killarney via the Black Valley. Altho' of course it would be nicer without ANY cars on it, the cars were few and far between.
Best detour: Guagan Barra national forest.
Best rest day: Probably the extra day I spent in Killarney. Rode on a horse and cart thru the National Forest there, which is pretty awesome. Hostel was super cheap but decent, and I got plenty of good sleep.
Best overnight: (see below for accommodation synopsis)
Worst overnight: wild camping in woods outside Dungloe. Was literally breathing midges.
Piece of gear I was most grateful for: Pearl Izumi droptail bib shorts. I've gone on a weekend tour using cycling tights with an elasticated waist, and bib shorts are WAY more comfortable; I'd never go without them, now. The droptail bit makes it possible to go potty without having to take off all my clothes first, which was the handiest thing ever.
Gear I never used and shouldn't have brought to begin with: extra warmth sleeping bag liner (it was too warm for it); all the extra base layers (my one merino one was fine).
Gear I never used but wouldn't have gone without: bike and puncture repair stuff, most things inside the first aid kit.
Gear I had to buy along the way which I should have brought to begin with: insect repellent; tea tree oil for first aid kit; small bottle of chain lube.
Mechanical failures along the way: had to replace rear brake pads about halfway thru. Other than that, nothing! Not even a single puncture!
Worst injury: pouring boiling water all over my ankle outside Doolin on accident D: . Funnily enough, I never fell off the bike or had an accident while cycling.
Accommodation Review!
best hostel: Kilcommon Lodge, North Mayo. 16 euro. Clearly the cleanest, friendliest, best run, best value-for-money hostel of all of them.
cheapest hostel: Paddy's Palace, Killarney. 8 euro.
most expensive hostel: Old Convent Hostel in Castletownbere at 19 euro, except I only paid 15 euro; otherwise, Old Mill Hostel in Westport at 18 euro for a mixed room. Old Convent is better value tho', because the rooms are only two person rooms and you get it to yourself if it's not full up.
best B&B: Rivervale Lodge, Mallow. Was cleanest, best rooms, AND had an awesome giant bathtub downstairs that I could use to soak my tired muscles! Turned out to be the only bathtub I came across during the entire trip. Sorely needed (pun intended), as I came across this place on day two.
friendliest B&B owners: tie between Sea Villa on the Ring of Beara, and Croninn's in Ballingeary.
And that's all I've got for now!
23 November 2012
23 October 2012
spiders on the way to work
^ short video for you guys. And some pictures. I think these are all wolf spiders--anybody know for sure?
As you may know by now, I work part-time, for minimum wage, at a King Soopers (aka Kroger or City Market) about 2 miles from my house. I typically walk there, and half the walk is thru a greenspace, away from traffic, so that's nice.
I even like the spiders. Black widows and other *poisonous* spiders creep me out to no end, but I don't see why I should be afraid of something like this that can't really hurt me, even if it is pretty darn big. Check out the detail in those smartphone photos, tho', huh? so. boss.
Missed posting last week. When I'm alone I'm fighting a mild but persistent depression since moving back here. I have no motivation to do much of anything. Cue spiral of self-hatred and despair. I'm sure a lot of you guys have been there, too. Not to worry, tho'--there's still hope yet.
pax.
04 October 2012
weird things brains do
Do you ever have really strange thought processes that come out of nowhere?
Like, putting on deodorant in the morning. My deodorant is on my dresser, next to a spray can of chain lube for my bicycle.
Hmm, I wonder if I could use that when I ran out of deodorant.
...No, that would be stupid because it would stain my shirts and get them all greasy.
...Also it's not... deodorant. And doesn't have any deodorising properties whatsoever.
...WTF BRAIN
Also, I'll be walking around or whatever and there will just be a thought that pops into my head, like, FRANKLY--DINOSAURS. or THREE THOUSAND MILES GIVE OR TAKE. which come from absolutely nowhere, aren't quotes from anything, don't relate to anything I'm doing or looking at... they just show up briefly as audio-thoughts and fade out after a while.
Or I'll just have snippets of cliche cinematic sentences run around in my head sometimes, like, I know what you really are, or What... What am I doing here? Usually accompanied by SUBTLE YET DRAMATIC FACIAL EXPRESSION TO NO ONE because I guess my face gets bored sometimes. The sentences aren't movie quotes either. They just seem like lines that would sound good in a voiceover or the climax of a scene.
It's mostly my aural thoughts that have these weird hiccups. Words out of nowhere, sentences that aren't related to anything. Internal conversations with a crazy person who sees chain grease and thinks, ARMPITS.
Please tell me I'm not alone in this.
pax.
Like, putting on deodorant in the morning. My deodorant is on my dresser, next to a spray can of chain lube for my bicycle.
Hmm, I wonder if I could use that when I ran out of deodorant.
...No, that would be stupid because it would stain my shirts and get them all greasy.
...Also it's not... deodorant. And doesn't have any deodorising properties whatsoever.
...WTF BRAIN
Also, I'll be walking around or whatever and there will just be a thought that pops into my head, like, FRANKLY--DINOSAURS. or THREE THOUSAND MILES GIVE OR TAKE. which come from absolutely nowhere, aren't quotes from anything, don't relate to anything I'm doing or looking at... they just show up briefly as audio-thoughts and fade out after a while.
Or I'll just have snippets of cliche cinematic sentences run around in my head sometimes, like, I know what you really are, or What... What am I doing here? Usually accompanied by SUBTLE YET DRAMATIC FACIAL EXPRESSION TO NO ONE because I guess my face gets bored sometimes. The sentences aren't movie quotes either. They just seem like lines that would sound good in a voiceover or the climax of a scene.
It's mostly my aural thoughts that have these weird hiccups. Words out of nowhere, sentences that aren't related to anything. Internal conversations with a crazy person who sees chain grease and thinks, ARMPITS.
Please tell me I'm not alone in this.
pax.
03 September 2012
2nd UK trip, day three
I know I'm not posting these on time, or in order. I wrote the below on, like, the 14th of August. I am a Time Lady. Sorry. (If you have no idea what I meant by that--watch some Dr. Who.)
--
There are no silences here, in this hostel. The windows are open against the heat, and Manchester traffic rumbles constantly by underneath. Wailing sirens, streams of raucous revellers, impatient horns. The door to the room squeaks and clatters open. People come and go, following their own disparate schedules. Sleep is taken only in snatches and fits. The blue silicone in my ears is very imperfect insulation, but I make do with what I've got. Being dry and off the street is all I need.
I allow myself to sleep as long as I want and take a leisurely breakfast out of packets and tins downstairs. With tea of course: the lifeblood of my travelling. Then a train to Huddersfield, a nice conversation with a local lady who has an electric bike; green streaming by the windows, layered over sandblasted stone and aged brick. The hills are formidable and render electrics on a bike a necessity for all but the most hardy cyclists. But I've only five or six miles to Holmfirth from here, so they give me little pause as I set off into them.
The road twists around and among the hills, skirting thru small towns along the way. The smell of old forest permeates the air. Mildewed leaves and dirt and mossy trunks. Much of the way is sheltered under canopies of branches and leaves, natural tunnels with a peaceful darkness to them. The air is moist and sky overcast, but the atmosphere is that of natural, subtle beauty.
Holmfirth is small, set tumbling upon the road into a valley. I'm here because my Grandmamma said that I should come. I'm glad she did. She cannot come herself, so I'm her eyes and ears for now. I don't take as many pictures or video as I should like, but I do my best. Happy birthday, Grandmamma. I'll be seeing you very soon.
The ladies in the tourist office are imminently friendly, and gab and gab with me until we realise that the exhibition will close before I get there if I don't move out. I've already essentially missed the tour bus, so I buy a DVD that will take us on it later, and head down then to Compo's house. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's from a long-lived British show called Last of the Summer Wine, filmed in this little slice of Yorkshire for decades. Grandmamma is a big fan.) After the museum, shop, and tea in the Wrinkled Stocking tea room, it's off to find the series' iconic pub. I would stay for a bit of summer wine (haha) but I'm full and it's been raining off and on for a while, so I head back the way I came, into Huddersfield. The shut-up shops have transformed the town from bustling and busy to dreary and empty in the few hours I've been gone. The roadworks on the ring road don't help either. It smells like dust and wet concrete. The train comes late.
--
Fog blankets everything in whitish grey outside the train back into Manchester, and I am sitting on the floor in a train that had no seats for me to take. BK rests against a pile of cases next to me. I like how bicycles can travel on the trains here, free (as space permits). The entire country opens up to me that way.
It'll be York tomorrow, then. Not much else from this day or the next to communicate. My poetic mood seems to have waned. We'll see what's left of it in the coming days, I suppose.
Pax.
--
There are no silences here, in this hostel. The windows are open against the heat, and Manchester traffic rumbles constantly by underneath. Wailing sirens, streams of raucous revellers, impatient horns. The door to the room squeaks and clatters open. People come and go, following their own disparate schedules. Sleep is taken only in snatches and fits. The blue silicone in my ears is very imperfect insulation, but I make do with what I've got. Being dry and off the street is all I need.
I allow myself to sleep as long as I want and take a leisurely breakfast out of packets and tins downstairs. With tea of course: the lifeblood of my travelling. Then a train to Huddersfield, a nice conversation with a local lady who has an electric bike; green streaming by the windows, layered over sandblasted stone and aged brick. The hills are formidable and render electrics on a bike a necessity for all but the most hardy cyclists. But I've only five or six miles to Holmfirth from here, so they give me little pause as I set off into them.
The road twists around and among the hills, skirting thru small towns along the way. The smell of old forest permeates the air. Mildewed leaves and dirt and mossy trunks. Much of the way is sheltered under canopies of branches and leaves, natural tunnels with a peaceful darkness to them. The air is moist and sky overcast, but the atmosphere is that of natural, subtle beauty.
Holmfirth is small, set tumbling upon the road into a valley. I'm here because my Grandmamma said that I should come. I'm glad she did. She cannot come herself, so I'm her eyes and ears for now. I don't take as many pictures or video as I should like, but I do my best. Happy birthday, Grandmamma. I'll be seeing you very soon.
The ladies in the tourist office are imminently friendly, and gab and gab with me until we realise that the exhibition will close before I get there if I don't move out. I've already essentially missed the tour bus, so I buy a DVD that will take us on it later, and head down then to Compo's house. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's from a long-lived British show called Last of the Summer Wine, filmed in this little slice of Yorkshire for decades. Grandmamma is a big fan.) After the museum, shop, and tea in the Wrinkled Stocking tea room, it's off to find the series' iconic pub. I would stay for a bit of summer wine (haha) but I'm full and it's been raining off and on for a while, so I head back the way I came, into Huddersfield. The shut-up shops have transformed the town from bustling and busy to dreary and empty in the few hours I've been gone. The roadworks on the ring road don't help either. It smells like dust and wet concrete. The train comes late.
--
Fog blankets everything in whitish grey outside the train back into Manchester, and I am sitting on the floor in a train that had no seats for me to take. BK rests against a pile of cases next to me. I like how bicycles can travel on the trains here, free (as space permits). The entire country opens up to me that way.
It'll be York tomorrow, then. Not much else from this day or the next to communicate. My poetic mood seems to have waned. We'll see what's left of it in the coming days, I suppose.
Pax.
14 August 2012
2nd UK trip, day one
With this dawn comes responsibility. Pre-booked tickets and interconnected plans, a fabric of preconceived direction unlike anything my past self has ever really given me before. The morning air is already bright with warmth. I cycle alongside vans and articulated trucks to the Dublin port, entering the industry-heavy realm of twisted coloured metal, stacks of aging shipping crates, petrol fumes. I am boarded onto the lower deck of the ferry with all the HGVs. There is a three-bicycle rack there by the gangway, where BK will wait patiently for me to return to her, bracing herself by one wheel against the rolling of the sea. I say goodbye and make my way upstairs.
The sea is smooth and clean as silver. I stare out over it, this ethereal reflection of the air. Three hours of sleep is hardly enough to keep me going past this point. Food first, then rest, curled up in a booth with my bag between my legs like some kind of canvas egg. I awaken when we approach the other shore. The water glitters violently as we forge ahead to dock, and I disembark after the biggest truck, a guppy swept up in the slipstream of a shark.
Two trains follow close after one another and I hardly register either one. Marshmallows and peanut butter and a ribbon of land unspooling rapidly behind. Ill-behaved children and ill-tempered parents. Fits of sleep stolen before muscles relax into the rattling panes.
--
Every city has its own unique character. It is etched into the street signs, spattered in graffiti, lurking in each grubby corner. To be understood it must be seen, smelled--felt, boiling off the concrete in the sweltering heat of a midsummer's day. Manchester is its own self. A wizened old man, hunching over his meagre river with a shifty smile.
The sea is smooth and clean as silver. I stare out over it, this ethereal reflection of the air. Three hours of sleep is hardly enough to keep me going past this point. Food first, then rest, curled up in a booth with my bag between my legs like some kind of canvas egg. I awaken when we approach the other shore. The water glitters violently as we forge ahead to dock, and I disembark after the biggest truck, a guppy swept up in the slipstream of a shark.
Two trains follow close after one another and I hardly register either one. Marshmallows and peanut butter and a ribbon of land unspooling rapidly behind. Ill-behaved children and ill-tempered parents. Fits of sleep stolen before muscles relax into the rattling panes.
--
Every city has its own unique character. It is etched into the street signs, spattered in graffiti, lurking in each grubby corner. To be understood it must be seen, smelled--felt, boiling off the concrete in the sweltering heat of a midsummer's day. Manchester is its own self. A wizened old man, hunching over his meagre river with a shifty smile.
09 August 2012
reflections off the road: back into bad habits
Well, here I am back in Dublin, and slipping immediately back into all the bad habits I thought I put behind me when I set off on my grand cycle. Watching youtube videos all day, after being youtube-free for almost 30 days. Sitting around refreshing pages over and over waiting for updates. Getting hardly anything done. I'll run an errand or two, then sit down at the computer for hours. Wash a few dishes, put a few things away, then sit down again.
I really need to start having dedicated Internet-Free Days. I think I will start with one day a week: Friday. Every Friday I will do no internet except email on my phone, and research if necessary. I will try to do more creative things. I will restart my non-cycling workout routine. I will start a new comics project. I will sketch or write in my journals more often. I will make a blog entry twice a week and a youtube video once every other week.
I'm putting these goals in public now so you guys can get on my case if I don't follow thru. If you see me on the internet on Friday, say, GET OFF THE 'NET, WOMAN. If I don't post a blog entry once every three or four days you can email me, WHAT ARE YOU DOING. WRITE STUFF.
--
Tomorrow morning I'm getting up at the crack of dawn to take a ferry, with my bicycle, to the UK. I'll disembark in Wales at Holyhead and then take a series of trains to Manchester. I will kill zombies again at an abandoned manor house out there, go visit Holmfirth and take pictures/video for my grandmamma (it seems to be the #1 place she would visit were she to come to the UK), then take a train to York and cycle up to see an abbey that my mother absolutely adored when she was here. Then I'm going to Cardiff to do the Doctor Who Experience that just opened down there, and will probably return home after that, altho' I haven't bought my return ticket yet just in case I would like to stay a bit longer. The trip will only be 7 or 8 days total, and I'll come back just in time to prepare for my sister to come visit me on the 21st - 29th!!
I will write blog posts from the road possibly, but may not post them until a few days later. I have some "reflections off the road" blog posts that are only half finished right now that I've been procrastinating on... haha, good going, me. I had a wonderful 27-day streak of being more creative and I went and blew it on the internet once I got back to my flat. I was gone so long I forgot that my carpet was red and was literally surprised by it when I returned home. Now it's been days since I've properly left this tiny little room.
My time abroad is rapidly coming to a close. It's up to me to make the most of it from now on.
Pax.
I really need to start having dedicated Internet-Free Days. I think I will start with one day a week: Friday. Every Friday I will do no internet except email on my phone, and research if necessary. I will try to do more creative things. I will restart my non-cycling workout routine. I will start a new comics project. I will sketch or write in my journals more often. I will make a blog entry twice a week and a youtube video once every other week.
I'm putting these goals in public now so you guys can get on my case if I don't follow thru. If you see me on the internet on Friday, say, GET OFF THE 'NET, WOMAN. If I don't post a blog entry once every three or four days you can email me, WHAT ARE YOU DOING. WRITE STUFF.
--
Tomorrow morning I'm getting up at the crack of dawn to take a ferry, with my bicycle, to the UK. I'll disembark in Wales at Holyhead and then take a series of trains to Manchester. I will kill zombies again at an abandoned manor house out there, go visit Holmfirth and take pictures/video for my grandmamma (it seems to be the #1 place she would visit were she to come to the UK), then take a train to York and cycle up to see an abbey that my mother absolutely adored when she was here. Then I'm going to Cardiff to do the Doctor Who Experience that just opened down there, and will probably return home after that, altho' I haven't bought my return ticket yet just in case I would like to stay a bit longer. The trip will only be 7 or 8 days total, and I'll come back just in time to prepare for my sister to come visit me on the 21st - 29th!!
I will write blog posts from the road possibly, but may not post them until a few days later. I have some "reflections off the road" blog posts that are only half finished right now that I've been procrastinating on... haha, good going, me. I had a wonderful 27-day streak of being more creative and I went and blew it on the internet once I got back to my flat. I was gone so long I forgot that my carpet was red and was literally surprised by it when I returned home. Now it's been days since I've properly left this tiny little room.
My time abroad is rapidly coming to a close. It's up to me to make the most of it from now on.
Pax.
02 August 2012
Reflections of the road: bike kisses
I saw a lot of Ring of Kerry cyclists sporting their own marks like this as well.
They need a lot of soap and vigourous scrubbing to remove, haha. But I see them as a badge of honour. Something unique that brands a cyclist a cyclist...
Random thought for yous to enjoy.
Pax.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)