Emotions and the Events that Cause Them

When I arrived in San Cristobal de las Casas, I was sick from bad border hot dogs. Alex had taken the bus in because he had rent asunder his rear hub axle a few days earlier leaving Guatemala.

"Mistakes were made."

-Alex

San Cristobal de las Casas is a small town in the mountains of Chiapas. If you buy coffee from Chiapas, it's probably coming from within a day's mule from San Cristobal. There are colonial churches and nearby waterfalls. It's the capital of the Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional (EZLN), aka los Zapatistas which to summarize is an agrarian revolutionary movement in Chiapas. Our grand plan in San Cristobal was for Alex to buy a new bike and leave within a few days. For these few days we would drink coffee, play chess and eat chocolate. It sounded like as good a plan as was ever made.

After a few explorations into buying a new bike in San Cristobal, Alex decided it wasn't really worth it to buy a bike there. They were all overpriced and there was nothing really in his size. So he decided to order a nice touring bike (Surly Long Haul Trucker) from a shop in the US, and get it shipped down to San Cristobal. This sounded like a fine plan to me, because I have a Surly and rode it a long way and think they're great machines. I was happy to stay in San Cristobal another week. So we set about ordering the bike, and descended into the Purgatory that is ordering a Surly and getting it shipped internationally.

There was delay after delay. Either it was an unacceptable form of payment or a statement from UPS saying we didn't have the customs form that we had. Or maybe it was that our box was 1 inch too big and we'd have to pay an extra $1,000. So we waited and waited and did all we could think of to get this bike, and quickly ran out of things to do in San Cristobal.

While this was all happening, my own bike was stolen, along with all my stuff that was on it.

Well, not all my stuff. Most of it. It was stolen from inside the hostel where we were. In hindsight I should have locked it up. It's just that after hundreds of times leaving it unlocked, I felt that inside a locked hostel was a safe place to leave it unlocked. I left the bags on it because for some strange reason I thought that the bags would be a deterrent of sorts to thieves, that the bags would make it too complicated to steal or something. The result being that the thieves got my bags and everything in them. They got my bike shoes that I had had since I was 17, the finest Italian leather that endured two rigorous seasons of mountain bike racing, a tour across America, four more years of hard mountain biking, and a tour across Eurasia as well as bits of Australia (I recommend these as well, Sidi Dominator II is the model). They got my camera, which is why there are no photos for this post and why there will probably be no more photos on this blog. Purists rejoice. They got my waterproof binoculars and my camping pots that have been on every trip I have. They got all the clothes I had save the ones I was wearing. They got foreign currency from Georgia to Hong Kong. I can only hope they try to spend my Uzbek Som in a little tienda for some cheetos or something. What they missed were my passport and bank card, as well as my water filter which I had inexplicably removed. I also held on to my coffee maker, but they got my coffee. They didn't get my baseball cards that I like to hand to people who are nice to me. They didn't get my journal. The list goes on and on, but the most important, treasured object they got was my bike. They got my bike.

Devastation.

And there we were in San Cristobal.

The standard hostel conversations were pathetic:

Where are you heading next?

Well, we're traveling on bikes but-

You're traveling on bikes? Wow! How many miles do you go a day?

Well, actually, we don't have any bikes right now: His broke to smithereens in Guatemala and mine was stolen.

Oh wow that sucks, good luck with all that.

Despair, and the wait continued for Alex's bike to arrive. I resolved to stay with Alex until his bike arrived, then take a bus to Mexico City where I would buy a new bike and ride back to my parents' house from there. I was close to buying a plane ticket from Mexico City, but after a few hours and much tactful encouragement from Alex's part, I decided that the worst I could do was let these thieves rob me of the triumph that returning on a bicycle would give me. I can't say how many times I've pictured myself riding those last familiar turns into the house I grew up in after so many unfamiliar turns. This is something I'm glad I can still look forward to.

During this wait, we realized that we didn't have to get the bike shipped to San Cristobal. We could get it shipped to Queretaro, where Alex lived for some months and which is much closer to our destination. Like a Colin Kaepernick read, we changed the shipping address, and were liberated from the prison of waiting for UPS. Now, the bike would be waiting for us! This was three days before the Super Bowl, so we decided to make post-Super Bowl Monday our date of departure. I've never wasted more time nor money reading about the Super Bowl in the two bikeless weeks leading up to it. Finally when it came I had my bets made, and I sat down amongst chicharrones and caguamas to enjoy. And enjoy it I did until the final San Francisco drive. But it was a great game, and the fact that we were leaving the next day filled me with joy, and I set out with Alex to buy him some mezcal to commemorate our time in San Cristobal. We went to one bar, then decided to go to La Revolucion, because apparently there's dancing there. On Sunday night there was no dancing, but I was in a great mood anyway, so when Alex announced he was hungry and was going to eat a torta on his way back, I said, "cool, I'm gonna stay another half hour or so". That I did, and when I paid and walked out I decided to take the longer road around to the hostel, the one which follows a pedestrian street.

Strolling. Full of anticipation for the next day, when we would arrive in Puerto Escondido and would swim in the mighty Pacific Ocean. A few steps later my churning mind was full of despair at my lost bike and gear, and at the San Francisco loss. It was mired in these ruts of lament and woe when I saw to my left a man standing next to no bike other than my own!

I rushed the middle-aged, well-dressed mountebank and pushed him aside, demanding where he had gotten this bike and where my things were. He said he didn't know where my things were, but that he could show me the person who had sold the bike to him. I agreed and we walked down the pedestrian street, my bike in MY hand. We passed by the tortaria where Alex should have been, so I popped in to look for him but he wasn't there. I was on my own. We approached another well-dressed, middle-aged man who was sitting on a bench in San Cristobal's gorgeous Parque Central. I asked him the same questions, and he responded by saying I could have the bike for 1,000 pesos ($78.5). I told the cabron to go fuck himself, at which point a policeman showed up and the two scattered off. After some bizarre, irrelevant questions from the policeman I left, and rode my bike home.

I have never felt such joy for a material object.

The next day we loaded our things on the bus for Puerto Escondido. Alex's bike is on the way to Queretaro, it's almost sunset and it's time to go bodysurfing.

3 Armpits and 2 Bad Hotdogs

Alex and I split from Amaury as he continues south to Tierra del Fuego or something crazy.

A few days later, I regretfully ate two hotdogs at the border trying to get rid of my Guatemalan money. Obviously, I got sick, but the worst part was that I supported the economy of one of the three true armpits of the world. There aren't many towns that come to mind that are this bad, but here are a few:

1. Shkodra, or Shkodër, or whatever you want. It's so bad they name it multiple things so you think you're going somewhere else. Actually I think it has to do with whether the town is a direct object or not. This is the first town in Albania if you're crossing the border from Montenegro. Albania is otherwise fantastic, and a great place to travel (check out what Jaco has to say about it), but this point of entry is really a dump. Literally, there's garbage smoking from every angle. Shkodra is the land of the cabbie scam, the only bad börek in the Balkans, giant holes in the sidewalks and dogs making love all over the place. The first time I went there I was intercepted by some Catholic missionaries at the border who were terrified for my safety and demanded that I slept at their compound. The place is known for blood feuds. The second time I went some kids tried to take my bike helmet while laughing but gave it back after I panicked and yelled 'microbi!!' at them and pointed at the helmet and my hair. Why did I go back? Because Albania is full of incredible hospitality, interesting folks with interesting stories, great food, cranking landscapes and limitless eagles and aeries. It's also got the best coffee in Europe, no joke.

2. Sanche. Sanche is an agricutural town in the desert in Xinjiang, China, on the outskirts of which Jaco and I spent one night. First we were denied a place to put our tent several times, so we went to a teahouse to ask if we could sleep there. This is a normal thing to do in Central Asia. They have these massive platforms covered in pillows on which people commonly dine and then sleep. We were granted permission, and ordered some shashlik, which is fairly tasty Uighur grilled meat. People stared at us the whole time. When we would greet people in their native tongue (it's not that hard: asalaam alaykum) they would 90% of the time keep staring at us or just laugh. But we were used to this. What we were not used to was the sight upon our waking. When I woke up, at around 6am to Chinese school sirens and announcements blaring their daily cockadoodledoo of propaganda, there were three or four schoolchildren staring at me. I got up and walked around for a bit looking for bread (there was none in this town) and returned maybe a half hour later to find sleeping Jaco surrounded by a large conference of Uighurs young and old. There were 63 of them to be exact, half being adults, staring at Jaco while he slept. When he awoke, he naturally greeted them and said good morning, and they naturally didn't return his greeting. He dressed to much spectacle and we got out of Sanche, and Xinjiang, as quickly as we could.

3. This goddam towm in Guatemala on the border of Mexico which I couldn't find a name for. It's the last place where the Pan-American highway crosses the Seleguá river. Coming in from the East, you pass by a bunch of guys selling hotdogs. I asked how far the border was and they told me 4km. So I decided this was the place to get rid of my quetzales. I bought a couple hotdogs and ate them while people stared at me and didn't return my greetings. This generally makes me feel uneasy and unwelcome. People laughed and whispered when I asked a terrified storekeeper if he had beans in a can. He didn't. Then I left, and saw some tacos for sale, and decided to spend the absolute last of my quetzales on tacos. I was hungry. Some cabbie asks me if I needed a ride. No thanks. He insists that it'll be cheap. No thanks, I like my bike. He leaves me for a bit, then returns. He's screaming at me with a big, childish frown on his face. It looks like he's acting. He tells me to look at his van. It appears my guitar has smudged it a bit as it wiped against it as I passed. He acts really upset and instantly a massive crowd forms, maybe 50 people. Where did they all come from? And with all these people aren't there some beans in a can? Well, the driver keeps yelling that I've destroyed his car and I keep asking him what I can do. He spits on his hand and wipes at the smudge. It starts coming off and I urge him to continue but he doesn't. He looks to the sky and makes groanings of lament. The crowd loves this. I offer him my three remaining quetzales ($0.35), he declines. I offer him a taco, he declines. I ask him again what I can do and he mimes towards the car. I offer him everything I have of possible value again, and he declines. I'm sick of this game, so I leave as he's shouting, 'Dios!' and the crowd is laughing. I eat my tacos in a corner of the taqueria and go. Turns out there's another 35km or so to the border. Lying hotdogmen. This is how towns suck in my book.

From this godforsaken pit I descended and descended and descended to the border with Mexico then even more into Mexico. I spent the night warm in a cornfield. Then I hit another death climb. This one was crazy. Lumps forming on lumps rising rising rising out of the valley. It looked like a pile of little hills, except it continued for 40km or so and gained enough elevation for it to be really cold again. Every turn looked like a pass, but there never really was a pass. I rode until after Comitan, heading for San Cristóbal de las Casas, but unfortunately didn't make. The damn hotdogs caused some seriously curious bowel movements. I took the bus the remaining 73km of death climb into San Cristóbal, which is where I am now.

It's a fine town, and here we will wait for Alex has ordered a new bike after his rear hub axle snapped in two (whoa!). I ordered a new front rack as well after mine snapped in two (whoa!). Mine got welded back together though and it looks pretty cool.

And we'll wait until Sunday when a certain Conference Football Championship game will be played by a certain SF 49ers team. Like eagles with jetpacks, soar on!

Muscles and Churrascos

We did make it to Quetzaltenango, to which from this point on I'll refer to as Xela, because it's the same place and Xela is about 75% easier to write. Xela is the Mayan name.

Broken, we made it. After Cobán, we climbed and climbed some more to a town called San Cristóbal, whence our map indicated that the road turned to dirt. With this knowledge, seared by anxiety into our brains for days, we took our time in San Cristóbal. Lucky we did, because we ate the best churrascos to date in San Cristóbal Verpaz. Churrascos, for those who do not know, are a Guatemalan street food sensation. They are some of the best street food on offer worldwide. Yes, worldwide. Better than tacos. Even Amaury, my Mexican comrade, agrees. So, you may be wondering, what is this sensation? Well, to begin with, you don't find churrascos, they find you. They're mobile, fast and usually pedal-powered. Finding and eating churrascos is a convergence of the right place and the right time. Say it's 11am in San Cristóbal Verapaz and you're hungry. You go to the main square, and lo and behold, a churrasco has appeared before your eyes. You approach and ask the churrasco man, "Whatcha got?" and he replies, "churrascos". You tell yourself, "fantastic" as you try and collect your emotions and you ask the price. This is the greatest variation in churrascos, and in San Cristóbal at the right place at the right time, the answer is 10 quetzales, which is about $1.25. So you order one for yourself and one for your friend as you sip your included coffee and sit in the shade and wait for the thin strips of marinated beef to grill. The churrasco lady who is accompanying the churrasco man refills your coffee and confirms your worst fears about the dirt road. Then the churrasco arrives on its styrofoam throne. Surrounding it are its princes guacamole and sour cream, with lady rice and squire beans not far away. Waiting not far away are the peasants, the humble and numerous tortillas, which are grilled after the meat over the same coals to lend a smoky meaty character. Then you mix it all up and cram it all into tortilla after tortilla and drink cup after cup of coffee and imagine it all turning into muscle as you destroy yourself gaining the limitless altitude that is the experience of riding a bicycle through Guatemala.

After lying around a bit after our churrascos in San Cristóbal we left in pursuit of eagles on the dirt road. Indeed, right in the middle of town, our road turned into nasty, dusty dirt with rocks the size of grapefruits sprinkled liberally all over the surface. Luckily, there was hardly any traffic and the road wasn't so dusty. I didn't have to put on my surgical mask which I bought in China as part of Jaco's and my disguises to pass as Chinese bike tourers into Tibetan roads, which were off limits to foreigners. Check it out at www.supercontinental.blogspot.com. We climbed and climbed, until suddenly, gloriously, we came to a pass. Imagine, a pass! We could look out over the valley and see the roads we would descend into the abyss, from which we would undoubtedly spend the next week climbing. But for the moment, we were at the top of a pass, all potential energy and churrasco ready to explode in a feast of downhill we had been waiting days to enjoy. To our left was a pile of trash with vultures circling and eating, despite the fact that it was either on fire or smoldering. Below us was the valley, green and lush. Above us was of course, nothing but blue sky. To our right was the most gigantic landslide I've ever seen, complete with a sign posted by the government explaining that they didn't work on the road because every rainy season there's a landslide and it's a bit futile. Enter on your own account and risk, it said. It seemed like the landslide lasted for about a kilometer, and after that turned back into the already nasty dirt road. We checked our brakes and our wheels, and forged ahead into the disaster.

To be honest, on a bicycle it wasn't much worse than the dirt road. In a car however, the road narrowed and there were bigger boulders that posed a great risk to wider vehicles than ours. Once we cleared the landslide there was a slight incline again, then we descended for another couple hours. At one point, Amaury's tire blew because his rims got so hot from braking that they melted the rubber on the tube. While fixing the flat we met another tourer, Flavian, who was riding a foldable bike with really small wheels. He was going up the other side, and was a cheerful lad. It was a massive surprise to see another person, not to mention cyclist on this road. He told us that indeed, once we hit the valley, there would be a lot more climbing.

To no one's surprise, there was. After hitting the valley in a town called Chixoy, we climbed on good roads for another two days before finally descending again into Sacapulas. When we awoke in Sacapulas, Amaury's knees were showing obvious symptoms of climbing fully loaded for two days, and we elected to take a bus the rest of the way to Xela. I'm not sure which is crazier, traveling by bike or by bus in Guatemala, but I think it's by bus. Willingly putting yourself in a Guatemalan bus on Guatemalan roads is really insane. The drivers seem like they've taken some sort of stimulant cocktail, then get into the driver's seat of old American schoolbuses, turn on weird dance music, accelerate and smash everyone inside into the walls on every turn. They spout black CO smoke and honk compulsively. When we disembarked in Xela, the bus was still moving as they threw us our bags and bikes from the roof of the bus. Amid honks and smoke the bus turned the corner at the terminal, and the co-pilot screamed the name of the next town they were heading to at people on the sides of the road, hoping to gain new customers for the return journey.

In Xela, we've been staying with the gracious Ana, whom we met on warmshowers.com (which I think is a hilarious name for a website). Funny mental images aside, warmshowers is a great website that connects people traveling by bike with people who are willing to host them. Ana hosted us for just under a week. She took us to her cabin at Atítlan (another outrageously beautiful volcanic lake), to hot springs, and even found a doctor to see me on Christmas day to look at my throat (I had laryngitis, but I'm all better now). It was boundless hospitality, inspiring in every way.

We're still here in Xela pleasantly waiting for Alex. I buy the newspaper in the morning and read it with cafe con leche and breakfast at a churrasco place near the police station. We're the only non-cops in the place, which has no name and no advertizing. It was pointed out to us by a policeman, who, it turns out, know where to get good cheap churrascos no matter where they are.

Trying to Make Sense of these Mountains

We're in Cobán after a great battle with the mountains of Guatemala.
Titans have raged at lesser monsters.

We left Mexico in high spirits after renting a car and driving inland to see distant Calakmul, a ruin as epic as its name. It's now completely junglefied, and the central plaza is full of massive trees and the monkeys who swing and jump from tree to tree. There is at first one massive temple you can see, but when you climb it you see from the top that there are two more temples, each one more of a mammoth than the one that came before. And from the top of these three behemoths giants play a game of catch with lightning bolts, but they're shy so once you get past the tree line they scamper away into the sea of forest that is the border of Mexico and Guatemala.

Then we crossed into Belize, where they speak English and we camped in fields of sugar cane. Belize was a total dump except for great tamales and beer that was fantastic both in quality and selection. I recommend Belikin Stout for anyone who is unfortunate enough to be in a place where you can buy the stuff. You'll probably get 15 mosquito bites just trying to open it. Also, the bars are called "cool spots", which I thought was cool.

So after getting ripped off some more we loaded our bikes onto the roof of a van and got in that van and rode it into Guatemala to a town called Flores. Flores is actually an island in a volcanic lake in the jungle, and was pretty cool. Everywhere you looked, there was water, and islands on volcanic lakes are generally cool. The point of going to Flores was to go to Tikal.

Tikal is another Mayan city, capital in fact, that was constantly at war with the friendly citizens of Calakmul. According to an information sign at Tikal, the Tikalites were more successful in combat because they had a superior military tactic where they would surround enemy villages and attack with spears from all sides. Sounds pretty scary to me. We tried to get there at sunrise because there are around seven temples that are all lined up and when the sun rises - especially near the solstices - it rises directly over all the temples. This sounded like a good reason to get there for sunrise, but the bus didn't leave early enough, so we woke up painfully early and got there an hour or so after sunrise. Classic for this group. It was a fine sight regardless, and we were fortunate enough to see Tikal without a crowd. We saw monkeys and these weird animals that walk around sniffing the ground the whole time with their tails pointing straight in the air.

Then we split. Since Tulum, I've been riding with my good friend Alex Boon and his friend Amaury, who is from Querétaro, north of Mexico City. Amaury is riding from Los Angeles to Argentina and beyond, with no end date or end place in sight. Alex left us in Flores to get back to Cancún where he has a flight to catch back to Florida. So since Flores it has been Amaury and me on our way to Quetzaltenango, Guatemala's second largest city which is on the other side of the country. Guatemala is small, so we gave ourselves five days to get there. It looks like it'll be closer to ten.

Guatemala's hills are like no others I have seen. To live in them is one thing, to build roads in them another, but to ride a bicycle through them is really dumb. Generally, in the mountainous regions I have ridden through such as the Rocky Mountains, the Alps, or the Himalayas, a road leading up and over a mountain will follow a valley, then a river, then leave the river for the pass, getting steeper with each step. In Guatemala, there are no valleys, no ridges, not even passes. There are only roads that go up. Everytime you're sure you hit a pass, you keep climbing. Nothing seems logical. My arms are more tired and sore than my legs. Not even the switchbacks make sense. The whole point of switchbacks is to make the grade less steep, and there will be a spurt of absolute Steepness in the apex of the turn, then the road eases up to the next. Here though, you hit a switchback and then the road gets even steeper! It's madness! This is why we're here in Cobán after two days like this. We don't want to blow out my knees or get tendinitis. When we leave Cobán the road will turn to dirt and we will gain another 1000m (3300 feet).

All I can say is that once we do arrive in Quetzaltengango, we will feast like emperors, and toast the Mayan pantheon to a good effort at mountains.

From the New World

In a few months Chinese builders will have erected the tallest building in the world, and they haven't even started yet. They're planning a pace of five floors a day for three months.

There I was in Shanghai. I unloaded after a relatively easy couple flights where my bags got lost but no worries, mate, China Eastern air and the liars at the Singapore airport found them. I met my cousin Max for the first batch of countless dumplings, and the city swallowed me. Shanghai is huge, gray, cold, and damp. I´m not sure what I was expecting, but I think something more like bright and cheery Hong Kong with its hills and its bay and its free campsites. Shanghai has a river, but the only way to cross it outside of the ultra-crowded Shanghai metro is on a fairy ride tunnel like a Chinese It's a Small World that costs more than I wanted to inquire. After a few days with Max and my friend the audacious and well-mannered Kathryn Grant at whose house I was so generously welcomed (big thanks Kathryn!), I adjusted and went straight to the top of the former tallest building in the world, which was really goddam big. Its elevators hit something like 60kph, and within a few nervous ear blasting seconds you're at the top, looking DOWN at skyscrapers. It was surreal, certainly called for more dumplings. It was a joy to return to China, which remains one of if not my favorite countries to visit; and it was a strange, fully globalized interlude between Melbourne and Mexico.

Then I got on the airplane and days later landed in Mexico. I got to work unpacking my bike in Cancún's straitjacket humidity. My friend Alex materialized. He has been working in Mexico for six months, and riding his bike around the country.

Mezcal and tacos.

I put my bike back together and off we were, riding away from the airport, tropics pouring buckets of rain. There were vague echoes of arriving in Perth about a year ago, unpacking my bike after arriving from Hong Kong and riding to the house I would eventually call mine in Fremantle. This time was much better though. For starters, my plan is much more exciting. Arriving in Fremantle carried uncertainty. The only truth was that I needed a job fast. I wasn´t sure what I was going to do in Australia, but I knew I had to work if I wanted to do anything at all. Makes sense, right? This time though, I don't need to work at all! I did that, and I'm going home. So far the route home has been slow going, mainly due to Mayan ruins and other distractions.

The highlight of these so far has been climbing to the top of the Gran Pirámide at Cobá. Cobá is located what I would consider deep in the junble, and it's a fairly huge site. It's most impressive item(other than this really cool blue and yellow bird I saw) is this Gran Pirámide, or, Really Big Pyramid of Glory and Magic. You can climb the hell out of this one, step by step until you get above the tree line and are on a level only eagles could dream to achieve. Then you are on the top.

Part of the spectacle of these ultra-touristed pyramids are the other tourists there. When I got to the top there were wheezing Russians, Hungarians with binoculars looking at telephone poles, Americans lying prostrate in the sun clutching at their chests hoping they can rip their lungs out and throw them in ritual sacrifice down the stairs, and there was a dude doing yoga handstands off the top steps that made me really nervous. Everyone thought was this was the most entertaining man in Mexico. Lots of people asked to take pictures with him, which disturbed his routine. He obliged, and continued though not so good naturedly. He got really mad when he was in the middle of taking a self portrait of himself clutching his one ankle while he extended his other as high as he could behind him while staring at the massive drop in front of him, and a tourist sat down on the ledge he was on between him and his camera, interrupting his portrait. He got down, scoffed loudly, and explained he was taking a picture. The guilty party laughed and moved to a much better place, in the shade.

So here we are. It's Alexander J Boon and me, a little late for discovery but with aspirations of enchiladas and avocados. We've got time and language skills, and we're heading to Belize tomorrow. I thought Albania had eagles, but Mexico is the undisputed capital of eagles. And with their grace, we will soar on their wings. And maybe catch a blue whale or two in Baja.

A Little Bit Here, a Little Bit There, and Back Again

Gee Willikers, a new blog!

To me, ultra means the outer limits. Ultraviolet light is light on the edge of the spectrum, or ultrasaurus was the biggest hypothetical dinosaur, pushing the very definition of what it meant to be a dinosaur. So you will see me ultracontinental: so great as to challenge the very notion of a continent. Sorry, I got a little carried away there. As my dear long-term readers know, this is my third blog documenting a bicycle trip that will be entering its fourth and final continent on November 27. Yes, I know it's not good marketing to have three blogs, and I'll probably get even fewer readers and followers on this one, but frankly, consider this Act III to a non-fiction reality theater piece. The first blog, supercontinental.blogspot.com, followed the first legs of the trip, in which my friend Jaco "Big Jake" Roesch and I shook hands on the Portuguese shores of the Atlantic ocean, and headed east with Hong Kong on our minds. This trip would eventually climb the Alps; cross the Euphrates; survive the oily shores of the Caspian Sea to finally soar up to the mighty eagle-specked passes and pastures of the Tibetan plateau, eventually spanning the Eurasian supercontinent and descending to the warmth of the South China Sea. Then, on day 90 of our 90 day Chinese visas we found ourselves eating homegrown bananas in Hong Kong, even Occupying Central Hong Kong for a stretch. Then reality set in, and my bank account roared, "Nate, you must work! Go to Australia! There you can work, and after you have worked you can keep riding your bicycle!" So I listened.

I left for Australia after having spent my last money on a work visa and a plane ticket. I arrived in Perth at 6am on December 1, with about $60 cash and $19 in my bank account. I picked up my battered and deconstructed bicycle from baggage claim, put it back together and rode the 20km to Fremantle, on the Indian Ocean. Thanks to couchsurfing.com, I had found a place to stay in Fremantle, free of charge. With couchsurfing.com, reciprocity is the idea. I joined this website in 2006, and it is one of the finest uses of the internet, connecting travelers and hosts who give you special, local experiences and connections in cities of strangers. I eventually moved in with my couchsurfing hosts after having found a job in my first weekend in Australia. But making $22 an hour as a barista in Fremantle wasn't doing it for me, so after I saved enough money to move I went south, to pick grapes in Margaret River. Here I learned firsthand about exploitation, and would rather not go into it. Suffice to say Margaret River is the only place in the world I have ever been where I was told to "go home". I didn't go home. I went to Melbourne.

In Melbourne I quickly found work raising money for charity. I would do this job for the next six months, becoming a team leader and using an iPhone for the first time in my life. What significance! Fundraising was much more fulfilling than picking grapes or pouring coffee for idiots, and in the end I raised about $225,000 for UNICEF, Mind (a local non-profit mental health provider), and Clown Doctors (think Patch Adams). I quit last Friday, and all last week I was traveling the Great Ocean Road on my bicycle with my friend Pete (check out Pete's video of when he, our friend Kelvin and I rode our bikes across the US. The link is to the right titled "Keep it Rolling America"). I saw my first koala bears, and got really excited for the trip to come.

On November 19 I am flying to Shanghai where I will celebrate Thanksgiving with my cousin Max, who is an exchange student there. I plan to eat a lot of roast duck. Then on November 27 I am flying to Cancun, where I will meet my friend Alex and we will begin our two-wheeled journey through Mexico. Then I will enter California, and ride my bike on that familiar route home, which I imagine will be fairly surreal.

This blog is the third and final act of the past two years of my life. This is the culmination of tens of thousands of kilometers, the sum of every interaction I've ever had. It is my real job, it is my real world. My bicycle is my desk and the world is my office. Don't sweat the view.