From Failure to Success to More than Success

In early August, four cyclists started from Brussel's Grote Market to begin Syricipede, the revamped version of my failed 'Cycling to Syria' fundraiser.

Three and a half months later, Syricipede has succeeded beyond anyone's expectations. Three cyclists are currently in Antakya, Turkey, helping with labor and fundraising to build a center for Syrian refugee children there. Over six thousand dollars have been raised for Syria Relief and Development, a thousand dollars more than the original 'Cycling to Syria' goal, and double the Syricipede goal. Ten cyclists-- from Belgium, Holland, Thailand, Australia, Turkey and the US-- have participated in the relay.

I had a lot of  doubts about this idea-- after cycling 2000 kilometers on my own I hadn't raised a single dollar-- but Lien backed me up and connected with Lore and she connected with all of Holland and Belgium and cyclists joined and money came in and the cyclists have not only reached Antakya and inspired people to donate to help victims of the war in Syria, they have also effectively got their own humanitarian organization started just a few kilometers away from the Syrian border. So from the failed 'Cycling to Syria' came the successful 'Syricipede' and from that something new and even better has started.

So thanks, first and foremost to Lien Derycker, who took the dying ember of a spent fire and got it flaming again. Thanks to Lore Termont who turned the flame into a blazing bonfire.

Aside from Lien, Lore and myself, the other cyclists have been Nadine, Sirapon, Feike, Kurt Vandelanotte, Wouter Decock, Senturk Kemiksiz, and Greta Kading. Thanks to all of these courageous and compassionate heroes.

In addition to these cyclists, thanks to the fundraising team: Lien, Lore, Sirapon, Kurt, Wouter, Senturk, and Greta from the cycling team, as well as Jasmine Low, Markus Mayer (RIP), and Ellen Cocquyt.

And thanks to the dozens of donors who so generously gave, and to those who have helped the cyclists on the road, and everyone else who has supported in some way.

Also special thanks to all the people who helped me when I was on the road,  and to those who were there to help again in some way, most notably:

Lorenza Gamberini who told me to get settled before doing the fundraiser, and she was right. Lorenza helped me get my bike and helped to start the 'Cycling to Syria' page on Facebook and gave me a place to stay when I was almost penniless.

Sabina and her family in Montecchio Precalcino, who also gave me a place to stay and found me work and helped in a dozen ways and backed me up 100%. 'Cycling to Syria' officially began from their house.

Inge Huijssoon who not only hosted me twice when I was cycling alone, but hosted me again at the start of Syricipede and hosted Sirapon too.

Yvonne Somers, who hosted me and then four Syricipede cyclists a year later.

Elke Sohler, who also hosted me on the road twice, then took me in for good before hosting two other Syricipede cyclists.

Dejan Vickovic, who hosted me two years ago in Bosnia, and hosted Lore and Feike in September.

Lozinka Bakalska, who helped my travel buddy out two years ago in Bulgaria, and was there to host Lore recently.

And also the half dozen hosts of mine from two years ago who were ready to host our cyclists but for some reason never had the chance.

And finally, thanks to Selda Bozbiyik, who hosted me in Ankara almost two years ago, and rekindled my hope for peace, and who worked hard with me in Antakya to find a way to help the refugees there, and who gave me the idea to return to finish the work.

Follow the ongoing efforts of the cyclists in Antakya here:

https://www.facebook.com/CyclingToSyria

And you can still donate to Syria Relief and Development here:

https://www.crowdrise.com/CyclingRelayforSyria/fundraiser/kennethschroeder

Join a Winning Team

We cycled out of Brussels' Grote Markt-- four of us-- in the wrong direction. I'd thought the others would know the way. They'd assumed I would know it. So I took charge and asked Lien to lead the way. I cycled alongside her. From behind, Nadine called out that we should be going east instead of west. How did Nadine know which direction we were going? Why wasn't she leading the way?

Sirapon cycled behind Nadine. Sirapon may have been annoyed, but perhaps I only imagined this because she was by far the most experienced trekking cyclist among us, and what experienced trekking cyclist wouldn't be annoyed having to follow a couple of amateurs? Or maybe she was just amused, as what experienced trekking cyclist wouldn't have learned to accept all that happens on the road with a feeling of amusement? Indeed, Sirapon had said just the night before that the difference between an adventure and an ordeal is a state of mind. So, the adventure was underway.

My navigation skills having been learned at sea, I looked for the sun, but the sun is hard to find from the center of Brussels. And as it was near midday-- two and a half hours later than when we had planned to begin-- as it was near midday what would I have gained by finding the sun? It would have been neither east nor west. If I'd found it, it just would have been there, peaking.  But I looked for it anyway, feeling wise. I found interesting Belgian facades and a thin strip of sky, but no sun. Giving up on the sun, Lien and I reversed our course and we cycled past Grote Markt and we asked for directions and eventually we were on the road to Buvingen and Holland.

The story of the end of the first day's cycling, in Buvingen, Belgium.  by Lien

Here is Lien's fundraising page: 
https://www.crowdrise.com/CyclingRelayforSyria/fundraiser/lienderycker


Four days later, in spite of my navigation, Sirapon, Nadine and I were weaving through the crowd along the Rhine, in the center of Cologne. Lien had turned back in Aachen, as she had things to do back in Belgium. Though we had missed Lien's enthusiasm for the last day and a half of cycling, Sirapon, Nadine and I had reached our goal to complete the first leg of the journey.

At the beginning it had been uncertain as to whether anyone would be able to cycle from Cologne to Slovenia, where the next cyclists would begin from. Now Sirapon made it clear that she would cycle as far as Passau, near the Austrian border. Before we parted, I removed the green ribbon from my bike and cut it in half and gave half of it to Sirapon to carry to Passau. The other half I would give to Lien or to Lore to carry from Slovenia to Reyhanli. I said goodbye to Sirapon, and to Nadine, who had been an unexpected but welcome addition to our group. Nadine's plan is to cycle on her own from Cologne to Basel, and then to Milan.

As I write this, Sirapon is somewhere near the Rhine-- perhaps in Bonn or Koblenz.  She is raising money along the way for Syria Relief and Development. Here is her page: https://www.crowdrise.com/cyclingrelayforsyria/fundraiser/siraponsoinak

Sirapon is from Thailand. She's been on the road cycling for five years-- a hardened trekking cyclist. And now she's Syricipede's cyclist on the ground.  

Meanwhile, Lore, who will be one of our cyclists from Slovenia to the Syrian border, has been fundraising like mad. She recently hosted 'Syricine', a big fundraising get-together with films and food. The result of that initiative had been a near doubling of the total money raised for Syria Relief and Develpment, to over $2,200.

Here is Lore's fundraising page:
https://www.crowdrise.com/CyclingRelayforSyria/fundraiser/loretermont
 
This is a winning team, especially now that I am not the navigator. Join the team by donating, or by cycling for a stretch of the journey. I'm right here, waiting to hear from you.

Then and Now

The official start of 'Cycling to Syria' was one year ago today. By 0821 in the morning-- the time I am writing this-- I had been cycling for some 30 minutes. I was pedaling hard after spending three weeks in Montecchio Precalcino with Sabina and her family. They had risen early to see me off, and there had been a little 'cutting the ribbon' ceremony, and Sabina had given me half of the ribbon to put on my bike to carry all the way to Syria. I had tied the green ribbon to my headtube, and it flapped noisily in the wind.

Roberto and Sabina one year ago today, in Montecchio Precalcino, just before I cycled away

By the end of that first day I'd cycled some 120 kilometers and felt that I'd overdone it, and the next day I cycled another 140 kilometers just to make sure I'd overdone it. I made my way back to Milan, then into Switzerland and through San Gottardo Pass in the Alps. I cycled towards Paris to meet a friend-- Brad-- who was going to cycle with me, but as it turned out, we never hooked up. I cycled on to Antwerp to meet another friend who I thought might like to go as far as Istanbul with me, but she had other plans. When I left Antwerp, finally heading towards Syria instead of away from it, I reconsidered what I was doing.

The seed of the idea had come to me when I'd been in Antakya, near the Syrian border several months earlier. I had wanted to do something to help Syrian refugees who had fled to Turkey because of the war, but I had been on the road and on my way to Palestine and Egypt. Once in Egypt I'd been stranded for a few months, and I had no idea where to go or what to do next. A friend in the US helped me to get back to Milan, but it was only when my friend in Antwerp agreed that we could cycle to Istanbul that I thought of making a cycling trip all the way back to the Syrian border to raise money for victims of the war there.

I was excited. I had a new plan-- a goal to work towards-- a raison d' etre. When Brad also agreed to cycle with me, I envisioned a fulfilling journey by bike back to Turkey, with a group that had grown to four people, and with the added benefit of raising money for a good cause.

But after a month cycling to Antwerp, waiting there for another month, and then heading into Germany alone and without having raised any money at all for Syria, I felt that I was on a mission of futility. I was still pushing forward-- hope and vitality are antidotes to despair-- but I was cycling to Syria at this point mainly because I had nowhere else to go.

Then I met Elke...

*******************************************************************************

Though I stopped cycling last October, I hadn't given up on 'Cyling to Syria'. I thought it might be better to organize things a bit now that I was off the road. I thought it might be better to get more people involved-- people who were interested in raising money for the victims of a war, and people who were interested in cycling for that purpose. As it turned out, now that I was stationary and stable, people found me, most notably Lien.

Lien is a Belgian student who has decided to take a break from school and take on the bigger challenge of cycling across Europe and all the way to the Syrian border to raise money for Syria Relief and Development (http://syriareliefanddevelopment.org/). She has already cycled most of the way from Belgium to Valencia, and we cycled together for a couple of days in Belgium. Lien has become the driving force behind 'Cycling to Syria', and because it has become something new over the past 10 months, we've re-named it 'Syricipede.' We now have a website: http://laperipherie.wix.com/cycling-to-syria
and a much better fundraising platform:
https://www.crowdrise.com/CyclingRelayforSyria/fundraiser/kennethschroeder
If you take a look, you will see that we have already raised over $1000, and you will see the others who have joined our fundraising team. You will also see that a friend of Lien's-- Lore-- has been the driving force behind the fundraising.

Me and Lien, after cycling from Liege to Aachen

Lien's enthusiasm has attracted others who have their own strengths and a team has been built that can really achieve something. Cynics were my biggest obstacle when I walked for peace to the Middle East, and after being unable to deliver the petitions I had carried for over 6000 kilometers, and after I had failed to raise any money or real interest on my cycling journey to Syria, I was beginning to feel a little cynical myself. But Lien helped to change that. 

The plan hasn't materialized quite as well as we had hoped though. We'll be starting Syricipede in two days, on August 2nd, from Brussels, but without the interest of the media despite our efforts to publicize things. Three of us will cycle out of Brussels towards Cologne on the first leg of the journey-- Lien and an intrepid world-trekking cyclist named Sirapon, from Thailand, will join me-- but after Cologne there may be a huge gap in the relay. Again, despite our efforts, we've got no one at this point to cycle from Cologne to Slovenia. But no matter. In Slovenia Lien and her fundraising friend Lore will pick up the trail and cycle all the way through the Balkans, into Turkey, and right to the Syrian border. In the meantime, I'll be providing all the support I can from Germany, fundraising, tracking their progress, reporting it, and arranging hosts.

Tomorrow I take the train with my bike to Brussels, and the next day the journey to Syria will begin again. Lien, Lore, and Sirapon will be the cyclists now, and dozens of people will help them along the way, and by helping them they'll also be helping people in desperate, unimaginable need.

And Lien will be carrying the green ribbon that Sabina gave me one year ago in Montecchio Precalcino.

Cycling to Belgium: Oui, We go to Huy

Meeting Lien in Liege was like meeting an old friend. I'd gotten to our hosts first; then, as I was settling in, Lien arrived, and if there really are past lives then Lien and I had surely been pals once before. It was more like, "Hey, it's been ages!" than "Nice to meet you."

Frederique made spaghetti carbonara for dinner, and as we ate, we told Frederique and Karl our plans.

"Our goal is to reach the Mount Everest of Belgium," I said. "What's it called again, Lien?"

"Signal de Botrange," she said.

"Yes, and to put a flag there, my boxer shorts or something," I said.

Over dinner, however, we decided that the highest point in Belgium would be too far to reach and return again to Liege in a single day.

"Also, it's too hard," I said. "I normally only climbed mountains when I was on the road because they were in my way, not because I wanted to."

Frederique and Karl then suggested we follow the Meuse River to Huy, a city some 40 kilometers distant. As it was mainly flat going along the river, and about 80 kilometers there and back, we decided on Huy, and to save the Belgian Himalayas for another time.

We left the next day sometime around ten in the morning. Traffic in Liege was light, and before long we were cycling along the river. Lien followed. I lost my way a few times. Then Lien led and I followed.

We passed a big aviary full of pigeons.

"Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?" she asked.

"No."

"That's because they're aliens, they arrive here fully grown, think about it."

I thought about it, and it seemed logical. They seem stupid, but that could be a ploy.

We cycled on, heading south, upriver. I had expected beautiful countryside. Instead, we cycled through a seemingly endless industrial zone. Neither of us complained, though. 

"It's very beautiful!" I shouted as we cycled through cement dust from a cement factory.

"Yes, beautiful!" she shouted back.

Lien understood my sense of irony.

Some 20 or 30 kilometers upriver the industrial zone thinned out. We approached a small side road. On a whim, I asked, "Should we take it? We don't have to go to Huy, right? No real destination, right?"

We took the side road and made a long climb-- long for Belgium anyway. The road ended in a dirt lot.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," said Lien, and we laughed, both of us out of breath.

We decided it was a good place to take a break. There was a mound of sand nearby.

"That's it, that's the highest point in Belgium!" I said. "What's it called again?"

"Signal de Botrange," she said. "Yes, that must be it."

"Mission accomplished," I said.

"Hmmm, maybe not," said Lien.

"Anyway, the good thing about going the wrong way uphill, is that all you have to do on a bike is coast back to go the right way."

"True," she said.

A minute later a sports car from Holland showed up. It was a convertible with a sporty, fashionable couple in it. They had also come the wrong way. They stopped and asked Lien directions in French. She replied in French, then in Dutch. We all headed back down the hill.

Huy was an interesting town. It was picturesque but a little bit gritty too, like Belgium in general. We found a grocery store because we were hungry. I watched the bikes as Lien went inside to do the shopping. The grocery store could have been a grocery store just about anywhere in the world, but the view from the parking lot was unique. There was the river and the medieval part of the town alongside it. As I admired the scenery, a rough looking man approached and asked for money. Instead, I shared some Mars Bars I had with him and his friend. His friend had a long pony tail, and he said, "Merci" in a deep, gutteral voice with a smile. We ate our Mars Bars together in silence.

"Très bon," the guy with the pony tail croaked, after eating his Mars Bar. We nodded at each other and smiled.

When Lien came out we moved to the grass by the river, but the whole city walks its dogs to this strip of grass, it seemed, so we had to move up the river a hundred meters before we found a spot the dogs had missed. We settled down and ate and enjoyed the sun and the river and the old town along its opposite banks and the hills beyond that.

"Too bad we can't stay for a while, stop for the day," said Lien.

But we didn't have a place to stay there or tents to camp wild so we headed back before long. We wanted to get back to Frederique and Karl before it got too late anyway, because we'd promised to make them dinner. By the river we decided we'd make them a Chinese stir fry.

A few hours later we took a break. We were back in the industrial area, and the road was busy, and the only patch of grass we could find was a small one with lorries parked nearby. Nevertheless, Lien lay down on the grass and closed her eyes and this is the sign of a real traveler-- the ability to take a break anywhere, anytime, even when far from a pastoral setting.

As we approached Liege we were back on the bike path and there were lots of signs pointing the way and giving the distance.

"Liege, 5.2 kilometers," I shouted.

Then later, "Liege, 4.7 kilometers."

Then, "Liege, 4.3 kilometers."

"Are you tired yet?" she asked.

"Yeah, tired," I said.

"Don't you get more tired when you read those signs?" she asked.

I stopped calling out the distance.

In Liege we stopped at a supermarket where Lien went in for the ingredients for our stir fry while I watched the bikes. Afterwards, we climbed a big hill in the city, and I wondered once again why it is that the day always seems to end with a climb.

When we arrived Lien went straight to the kitchen to start the stir fry as it was getting late.

"I'll join you in a minute," I said, but I flopped onto my bed for fifteen minutes before climbing the narrow steps of the old house to get to the kitchen. I admired Lien for being able to go straight to the cooking without taking even a little rest after an 80 kilometer day. I admired her for being able to take a minor commitment seriously. I'd seen that day that she was tough, and good natured, and reliable-- a team player. I could see her making it to Syria.

After I figured out how to cook rice in a bag, which took some time-- how much water do you need when the rice is in a bag? maybe I should take the rice out of the bag? maybe it doesn't matter how much water if it's in a bag!-- after this crisis Lien and I prepared the stir fry and we sat down with Frederique and Karl and enjoyed a nice meal with our new friends, talking about our day and everything else we could talk about in our short time together.

Cycling to Belgium: The Dutch Alps

It hasn't taken long for me to forget one of the cardinal rules of being on the road: don't waste the battery in your GPS/camera/phone. I had blithely taken photos and posted them on Facebook with my Samsung, and now, as I approach Aachen, I see the battery is already low. I disconnect internet and I will take fewer photos. Most important of all is the GPS, as I am not carrying a map.

In Aachen I pass through familiar territory in the city center, and I have to dismount when I find myself among a crowd outside the Elisenbrunnen. I check my GPS, note where I have to go, take a drink from my plastic bottle and cycle among traffic for twenty minutes before arriving at the Elisenbrunnen again. The crowd is different now-- younger-- teenagers are thronging after school. I stop and check my GPS again. Ah, yes, I see now. I should have made that left turn. Though I am cursing under my breath, I am relieved that I am not cycling with Lien yet, leading her in circles. That would be a bad start.

Once in Holland, in Vaals, I check my GPS again, and the map displays only the major towns and highways. Though I can still pinpoint my location, it is in a blank green field. I'll be able to head in the right general direction, but the route I take to Liege will be guesswork.

An hour later I'm in the hilly countryside at the extreme southern tip of Holland-- in the 'Dutch Alps'. I'm on a little winding road which leads, I hope, to Belgium. I take a break, marvelling at all the tourists walking around this far out in the countryside. They've come from other parts of Holland to stay at a nearby campground. In a distant field I see a bunker left from World War 2. These bunkers serve as unofficial monuments here and in Belgium, but in Germany they were long ago destroyed. In Germany they just want to forget.

 

When I go on I make a surprisingly long climb and I chuckle at the idea that I am struggling to pedal my bike up hills in Holland. The view is pretty, pastoral, idyllic. Homes and farms are old and beautiful-- Middle German style. I imagine I am the only person on Earth to enjoy this scenery when two middle-aged women clad in lycra cycle past me on their road bikes.

"Is this the way to Belgium?" I shout, gasping.

The woman trailing the other nods without looking back and points ahead with a vigorous motion of her hand. Old school navigation.

I pass a lazy herd of black and white dairy cows. In the valley below there is a monastery, and its bells are ringing, it seems, just for me. There is a trampoline in front of the monastery and I imagine frocked monks silently bouncing on it in their free time. I burst out laughing at the idea. A cow turns to have a look at the source of the laughter.

"What's up? You don't think that's funny?" I shout to the cow. The cow chews and looks away.

Fifteen minutes later, after a brief but thrilling downhill and another long uphill in low gear the road has wound around in the shape of a U and I am again looking down at the monastery but from the other side. The view isn't so pretty now, and I've forgotten the humor behind the idea of bouncing monks. I am making little progress in getting to Liege. I'm not sure where I am or whether I'm headed in the right direction. But then I remember what I've learned from the road, and I know the pressure I'm feeling to get to my destination is the pressure our civilization has taught us all to feel every day. To hell with it, I think, I'll get there when I get there, and having brought myself back to where I am I again see the beauty of my surroundings.

When I pass through a little village I notice the cars have the letter 'B' on their license plates. I see a street sign in French. I'm in Belgium.

After the long winding uphill country lane, the bigger road leading down towards Liege is both a relief for its ease of cycling and a chore because of increased car traffic. As I get closer to Liege the countryside becomes metropolitan muck. When I see the Golden Arches of McDonalds, I stop for a break-- not to eat, but to take advantage of the free wifi. Once my GPS is working again, I see that I'm closer to Liege than I had thought. I'll arrive within an hour, and I'll finally meet Lien, who is working with me to organize Syricipede-- our cycling fundraiser to help victims of the war in Syria.

_________________________________________________________________________________

SYRICIPEDE NEWS

Two more cyclists have joined us on our quest to raise money for victims of the war in Syria-- Queen, from Thailand, an experienced trekking cyclist who will most likely be cycling from Brussels to Zagreb; and Gharam, from Syria, who wants to cycle from Istanbul to the finish line.

Meanwhile, we've raised over 200 bucks so far for Syria relief and development through crowdrise

(DONATE TEN BUCKS HERE)
http://www.crowdrise.com/CyclingRelayforSyria/fundraiser/kennethschroeder

...and we've got a fourth Crowdrise team member, Markus Mayer, who has also been generously donating.

We're still looking for intrepid, compassionate cyclists who want to cycle a 200-300 kilometer leg (or more) this summer or autumn, somewhere along this route:

http://laperipherie.wix.com/cycling-to-syria#!join-the-syricipede/cmyd

And we're looking for those who'd like to join our fundraising team.
Just post a comment and we'll get in touch!

Cycling to Syria-- Syricipede Update

'Cycling to Syria' participants Lien and Jasmine have been onboard for quite some time now, helping to organize the fund raising event to be held next summer and autumn. Not only will they be cycling some or all of the route, they have built a website which, though still under construction, lays out the basic necessary information for 'Syricipede'-- as the event is now called. The website can be found on this link:

http://laperipherie.wix.com/cycling-to-syria

• CYCLING SCHEDULE:

         Brussels - Cologne : 1-5 Aug

         Cologne - Frankfurt: 6-10 Aug

         Frankfurt- Nuremberg: 11-15 Aug

         Nuremberg- Passau: 16-20 aug

         Passau- Linz: 21-22 Aug

         Linz- Graz: 23-27 Aug

         Graz - Maribor: 23 - 25 Aug

         Maribor - Zagreb: 28- 31 Aug

         Zagreb- Banja Luka: 1-4 Sep

         Banja Luka- Sarajevo: 5-9 Sep

         Sarajevo- Kraljevo: 10-15 sep

         Kraljevo- Sofia: 16-22 Sep

         Sofia- Plovdiv: 23-26 Sep

         Plovdiv- Edirne: 27-30 Sep

         Edirne- Istanbul: 1-6 Oct

         Istanbul- Izmit: 7-9 Oct

         Izmit- Eskisehir: 10-14 Oct

         Eskisehir- Ankara: 15-20 Oct

         Ankara- Aksaray: 21-25 Oct

         Aksaray- Adana: 26-31 Oct

         Adana- Reyhanli: 1-5 Nov

         Reyhanli- Antakya: 6 Nov

The dates are based on 50 kilometers a day, with an extra day on each leg for bad weather or other unexpected delays. 

Join us for a leg of the journey, or go the distance!

Or help victims of the war in Syria now by donating to Syria Relief and Development http://syriareliefanddevelopment.org

at
http://www.crowdrise.com/cyclingrelayforsyria/fundraiser/kennethschroeder

The New Plan:

Looking for intrepid, committed, compassionate cyclists to cycle any distance from 200 to 4500 kilometers, starting August 1st from Brussels, and finishing in Antakya, Turkey by the end of October, in a 'Cycling to Syria' relay to fundraise for victims of the war there. The route will be from Brussels to the Syrian border, passing through cities like Cologne, Budapest, Belgrade, and Istanbul. The idea is for cyclists to travel a leg of 200 or 300 kilometers-- for example, from Brussels to Cologne-- then to 'pass the baton' to the next cyclist or group of cyclists. This is NOT a race, but a fundraising project, so cyclists should expect to go only some 50-80 kilometers per day, depending on the terrain and weather. And of course, a cyclist can do more than one leg of the journey, including the entire distance. Cylists who are not actually cycling at the moment can help others who are on the road by raising publicity or finding them hosts along the way. If you would like to join the team, either to help organize or to do some cycling, contact me!

at la_peripherie@yahoo.com

or, if you prefer, help victims of the war in Syria now by donating to Syria Relief and Development http://syriareliefanddevelopment.org

at
http://www.crowdrise.com/cyclingrelayforsyria/fundraiser/kennethschroeder

Cycling with Marco Polo

I was having a cup of coffee at a bratwurst stand along the Rhine, in Bonn, when a barge called the 'Marco Polo' cruised past, making its way upriver. I thought about the Italian merchant who travelled to China so long ago, and about the journey that others were now making in the same direction, on foot or by bike, and about my own journey to Syria, now delayed indefinitely. The 'Marco Polo' moved on, and my thoughts moved on to American football for a time, as I chatted with the owner of the bratwurst stand, Stephan, who was not only a fan of American football, but also played it professionally in Bonn and Cologne.

Back on my bicycle I glided southward along the river, enjoying the scenery and the freedom that comes with a flat, well maintained bike path, good weather, and a route easy to navigate. The Rhine flows north but I was flowing south, to Koblenz, with a plan to continue for another three weeks before returning to Aldenhoven, where I'd sojourned a week before. The ease of the cycling had my mind wandering, so my thoughts flowed like the river, to a few days before, when all the seemingly absurd predicaments I had found myself in converged to a single point of clarity and purpose. There I'd been, carrying everything I owned on a bike, in autumn, in Germany, having cycled from Italy back in August, intending originally to get to Syria by this time, but having waited a month for others, in vain, and then planning on waiting yet another week for someone else to cycle with as far as Nuremberg before continuing to Syria alone, all with the intent of raising money for Syrian refugees, but having raised absolutely nothing. 
I wasn't penniless, however, so moving forward was the solution to any problems I had created for myself; moving forward had been the answer for the past two years. But then, suddenly, I'd had another option. I was offered a home. Indefinitely. And my role in the Theater of the Absurd had come to an end.

Back on the Rhine, I flowed along at 15 to 20k an hour, passing a hill on the opposite bank with a castle ruin on it; I was sure I'd seen that ruin when I was 16, on a Rhine boat tour, and I'd commented on it to one of my German exchange student hosts, about how beautiful and amazing it was, and he hadn't understood what all the fuss was about. I saw now that it was only a ruin, and nothing to make a fuss about, but I've been living in Europe for 17 years. A teenager coming from flat, semi-tropical Florida sees more in a castle ruin on a hill by the Rhine than the natives do, just as they had seen more in a Florida beach than we had.
I caught up with the 'Marco Polo', and passed it, slowly. It moved along steadily, but like the tortoise; it was more certain of arriving than the hare, which pulled ahead, then took another break.
I smoked, and as I sat on a bench on the river, the barge passed by, something of a companion now. I thought back to Dahab, in Sinai, where I hadn't known what to do after being denied entry into Israel for the second time. My peace walk was finished, and I was in Egypt without money or a plan. I had quickly made some friends there; Dahab attracts people like me , and I had found a new passion in free diving, so I seriously considered remaining there. I imagined Dahab had been the reason for my quest; the treasure I'd sought without realizing it. But then another plan had formed, another quest, faster, on a bike, and with more attainable goals, money for refugees rather than undeliverable petitions for peace in the Middle East. And with a friend, rather than alone.  

I cycled on, up the Rhine, which flows unceasingly, like time. The 'Marco Polo' had passed me because it also moved along steadily, like the river, and with my limited perspective, unceasingly, like time. I'd fallen behind it, dwelling on the past, and now I was with it, slowing down to measure its speed, 11 kilometers per hour, the speed of the present moment; but then growing impatient I surged ahead of it, now in the future.
I was going to Koblenz to stay with university students for a night, then I'd head northeast to stay with other hosts before meeting this latest potential cycling buddy near Frankfurt, where I would bide my time, floating from host to host until she was ready to cycle with me to Nuremberg. Then she would return home by train, and, because of that single point of clarity and purpose that had come to me like a flash of lightning, I would also return to a home and something like a future rather than pushing forward to Syria, where I would probably find myself once again broke and without much of a plan, and, if the trend continued, without having accomplished what I had set out to do.

At Remagen I stopped for a while, and the 'Marco Polo' passed me yet again. My head wasn't in the past, but the history of the bridge that was once there drew my interest. During World War II the US Army had crossed the bridge, the only bridge left standing on the Rhine. It had finally collapsed after being damaged by bombardment. The towers on either side were intact, however, and the tower on the side I was on now housed a Peace Museum. It was hard to imagine war there, in that peaceful setting, so long ago. When I was 16, visiting Germany for the first time, the war had been nearer. My host's father hadn't seemed very friendly in the beginning. I remember then that I thought it must have been because of the war. He would have been a kid when the Allies were dropping bombs all around him, and he would have remembered it. But after a few weeks my host's father had become friendlier; I think he'd realized I wasn't so different from his own son.

Then I thought of the present time, not there, but in Syria, and the war there, and I thought of the future, also in Syria, when someone might visit a Peace Museum in Aleppo or Homs or Damascus, and not be able to imagine that there had been war there.

I kept following the river towards Koblenz. The cycling remained pleasant, but with a hint of melancholy for having made the decision to quit life on the road. I'd grown accustomed to it, and to the freedom it represented. But much of that freedom had been illusion. The waiting for others to cycle with, the hoping for help from others to raise money, or to contribute money, the constant need to find help earning money, or to find a host; this was not the freedom others imagined I had. But there was also a deep sense of gratitude for all the help I'd received over the past two years, and for the experiences I'd had, and the people I'd met. There was relief at being able to stop, to really stop, and a feeling of acceptance despite not achieving what I'd set out to do; acceptance for who I am, independently of what others think; independently even of what I think about myself. This feeling was rooted in the present moment. I have been, in the minds of others, a hero, a saint, an enlightened man, but also a vagabond, a wastrel, a deluded man. I've been seen as happy and full of inner peace, and as chronically depressed and full of anger; as confident and strong, and as lacking initiative and weak; as compassionate, and as a man of integrity, and as selfish, and a liar; as capable, and as incompetent; as inspired, and lost. But in what was the present moment, then and there, I was simply whatever I was, in love with being there, at that moment, and feeling love for everyone everywhere. This last statement makes me weak and deluded to some, compassionate and saintly to others, but none of these judgements are right. Or all of them are. Who cares? Who among us aren't all of these things at one time or another?

I passed the 'Marco Polo' one last time as it struggled up a particularly fast current at a bend in the river, then I lost sight of it as I entered an industrial zone near Koblenz. But I still imagine it and all of those I know walking or cycling to Shanghai or Tibet or Nepal or Myanmar moving steadily forward, like time, and when I imagine this, the melancholy returns, but with a smile.

On my very last day on the road I cancelled the future, not continuing to Nuremberg, and I got my head out of the past, not regretting any of my decisions, and I returned to Aldenhoven, where I am now. Meanwhile, the 'Marco Polo' surges onward, and I'll try to cycle alongside it at the same pace. 

Cycling to the Grocery Store

Though I've only been 'cycling to Syria' for two and a half months, I've been on the road, in the broader sense, for almost two years. In that time I haven't returned home once, as there has been no home to return to. Thanks to the generosity and compassion of hundreds of people, I've been sheltered and fed most of the way, and I've found a temporary home or two, but no matter where I've been, or for how long, the road has always beckoned me; where next?
For most of my walk from Portugal to the Middle East, I was certain of my intentions, and confident, and joyful, but somewhere along the way I lost that certainty. I tried to revive that confidence with this fundraiser to Syria, but I found myself moving just to keep doing what I've grown accustomed to. Perhaps that lack of confidence is the reason I've failed to raise any money for victims of the war in Syria.
But it seems I've found a home now, in Aldenhoven, near Aachen, Germany. Syria is still on my mind, and I won't quit trying to raise money for the people who have suffered unimaginable loss there, either at the hands of a vicious regime or at the hands of equally vicious fundamentalist rebels. But I won't be cycling there anytime soon.
As I write this I'm in a t-shirt, nice and warm, and looking out the window at the cold street. I've spent too much time looking into windows and imagining the warmth inside after walking or cycling through the rain or snow for days. But maybe I can do more for the people who are on the outside, looking in, by being inside.
I won't stop this blog or its intention, but any cycling I'll be doing anytime soon will be to the grocery store.

Please Don't Donate

I may have made enough money to get all the way to Syria while I was working in Germany. This means that if you believe in what I'm doing, instead of donating to me (as so many of you did on my peace walk to Egypt) you can donate to International Rescue Committee by clicking right here:         
http://diy.rescue.org/cycling-syria
or, if you prefer, you can donate to Polish Humanitarian Action, 
http://www.pah.org.pl/wspieraj-nas/182
 which is an NGO I have a personal interest in, as I had the opportunity to meet one of it's workers while in Antakya last March. 
Both of these NGO's are helping victims of the war in Syria. 
If you donate, you´ll be helping people who have experienced loss that is unimaginable to you or I. You will be helping them to survive and rebuild. Just ten or twenty euros to help someone survive; damn, I'd call that a privelege, having the means and the opportunity to do that.
If you don't donate, you'll contribute to helping me get into the 'Guiness Book of World Records' for the most kilometers cycled on a fundraising tour without raising so much as one cent. So far I've done about 2300 kilometers without raising anything, so I'm well on my way. Thanks.

After returning to Antwerp, I did a little cycling towards the coast and back with my old pal Inge VanHulle. We cycled and camped in the rain, just like old times. No snow though. Then I set off for a return to Brussels (to see another pal, another Inge) before heading towards Germany, where I am now, near Bonn. I'll be back in Neuhonrath in a couple of days, this time by bike, to earn just a little more money before heading southeast towards Frankfurt. Then it will be Vienna, Budapest... and on to Syria.

Gaziantep Revisited; Gardening in Germany; the Elusive Brad

Back in March I was in the Turkish city of Gaziantep, not far from the Syrian border. Though I had been heading for Iskenderun to catch a ship to Haifa, I'd made the detour to Gaziantep because I was hitchhiking with 22 year old Shusaku Hayashi, from Japan. We'd met in Konya, and had decided to hitchhike together towards south central Turkey; in my case to catch my ship, in his case to visit Gaziantep and Hatay to visit local sweets and pastry shops. My mission was to deliver peace petitions in Palestine, his was to collect local sweets recipes from Paris to Shanghai.
Shu fulfilled his mission in Gaziantep by sampling baklava in various parts of the city. In spite of the fame of that city for baklava, Shu had decided the baklava there was second best; he'd had better in Bosnia. We stayed that first night there as guests of a teacher of Koran, who we'd met at a Muslim guest house. The second night we spent in a bus station until getting a free ride on a coach to Hatay.
I mention Gaziantep because I've just seen on CNN that there is now a US military presence near the city to protect it from Syrian missiles. The reporter made no mention of baklava.

As CNN is the only English speaking channel I can get here in the German village of Neuhonrath, I've seen almost nothing but Syria in the news. The emphasis is on the possibility of US military involvement there. There is not so much news  about the Syrian refugees, who amount to about 1/3 of the country's population.

I'm here in Neuhonrath, which is not far from Cologne, clearing an overgrown yard, and getting paid for it. Not only am I earning a good wage, I'm working as many hours as I want to work, unsupervised. I also have a room of my own in this house, and all I can eat. I should have enough money to get to Syria once I'm finished here.
Many thanks to my travel buddy Inge, who I walked with through the Balkans last autumn, and later on to Istanbul. She arranged the work for me. My 'boss' is her dad, Patrick, whom I met once before in Asenovgrad, Bulgaria.

I never did get to Paris.
I was supposed to meet my friend Brad there. We'd taught English together in Portugal, and at an International School in England. After not seeing each other for several years, we were going to cycle to Syria together, from Paris.
At first, Brad wanted to cycle south from Paris, through Italy, as he has a strong aversion to cold weather, and even September can be a bit chilly north of the Alps. As I was in Italy at the time, I had suggested that Brad could cycle south to meet me there. My going to Paris would be the wrong direction to get to Syria, unless I meant to cross America and Asia after Paris.  But Brad wanted us both to start from Paris. As I liked the idea of cycling in northern Europe, and as I wanted to visit Inge, who was in Belgium, I agreed, and I cycled towards Paris.
 But Brad has a strong independent streak in him, and he is elusive. When I was walking through the south of France a little over a year ago, Brad and I had agreed to meet in Marseilles. He was going to walk with me for a while. I'd wanted to go north from Nimes, through the Alps into Italy. Because of the possibility of cold weather in the Alps, Brad had wanted to get to Italy by sticking to the Mediterranean coast. I agreed, and started walking towards Marseilles. But then Brad was unable to do the walk for various reasons, so from Aix-en-Provence I'd headed north again.
So now, a year later, we were going to meet in Paris. Brad already had his bike, and seemed excited to go. He told me we'd stay with friends of his in Paris before setting out. But when the hosts he'd arranged in Paris fell through, I suggested we meet in Reims, where I had a host. Instead, Brad cycled southeast from Paris, to Dijon. I sensed he still wanted to go south. Nevertheless, I then headed towards Antwerp to find work, and to visit Inge. As our plan was to cycle through northern Europe, I thought Brad could meet me there. But Brad cycled to Basel, Switzerland, where I'd just come from. He then cycled into Germany, to Bavaria. He was logging 150 kilometers a day. Brad was cycling like mad. I suggested to Brad that he cycle north to meet me. He suggested I meet him in the Czech Republic. I started to think we might eventually meet at the Syrian border.
However, Brad is stalled for a bit now in Munich, as he's become ill. His message to me sounded urgent, that he needed to get to a doctor. He's been cycling through a lot of rain, cold rain, and is now paying the price. Maybe I should have heeded his request to cycle south.
Brad, if you're reading this, let me know how you are.

Meanwhile, I may be here in Neuhonrath for another week or so. I like the work; simple, manual labor sets my mind free. I like seeing the results. Other than the thousands of kilometers I've left behind me, I haven't seen tangible results from my work unless it's been on a farm or in a garden.

After I leave Neuhonrath, I'll go back to Antwerp, where my bike is waiting, to do some maintenance on it. And after that?  At some point in the near future I'll be cycling towards Syria, and not away from it. But right now I'm a little tired of planning my trip and worrying about where I'll stay next or whether I'll ever raise any money for the refugees, so I'll just say that tomorrow I'll be clearing an overgrown garden.

Think Small, Save the World

Several Western nations are poised to act with military intervention in Syria, with the aim of stopping Assad. The regime's alleged use of chemical weapons is the reasoning behind this. The stated goal is to stop an inhuman regime from killing its people with chemical weapons.

Of course, the rebels aren't all the team of freedom fighters we'd like to think they are; they are largely fundamentalists, and they've committed their own share of atrocities. And saving people from chemical weapons by using other weapons that will cause "collateral damage" is ridiculous; I know I wouldn't feel that I had been saved if my saviours accidentally killed my family. Furthermore, the use of chemical weapons could have been staged to promote military intervention. I don't know what the truth is, nor will I blindly accept the media's slant on the truth.

So instead of thinking big, of buying into a version of the truth, an ideology, of stopping Assad; I'd like to think small, of helping a Syrian child, for example, who has been the victim of a brutal war.
Instead of thinking big and paying taxes to provide weapons or to support military intervention to topple Assad and save the world with a lot of "collateral damage" along the way, I'd like to think small and ride a bicycle from Western Europe to Syria. I am hoping to encourage others to think small, that is, in human terms, and to contribute a little money, which will go to the International Rescue Committee's Syrian refugee crisis fund, or to Polish Humanitarian Action, whose members work inside Syria to deliver goods and medical aid to the victims of the war.

Enough money redirected from providing weapons to helping people in need will get rid of every Assad who pops up.

So put political ideology aside for a while, stop thinking big, and think small, in human terms. Stop  pondering the best way to use weapons to make the world "safe for Democracy", and act to provide for those caught in a war rife with ideologies.

Here's how you can think small to save the world; put ten bucks or ten euros aside and donate to:

http://www.pah.org.pl/wspieraj-nas/182  Polish Humanitarian Action;

or to http://diy.rescue.org/cycling-Syria International Rescue Committee

Thanks!

The First Three Weeks; a Summary

On July 31st at 0745 I cycled down the gravel road from where I'd lived in the village of Montecchio Precalcino and headed southwest to get to Paris, then Syria. If this doesn't make sense, keep in mind I'd walked from Portugal to Morocco a year and a half earlier to get to Egypt via Europe. Anyway, down the hill I went with one of my new 'Cycling to Syria' t-shirts on and a red and white keffiyeh on my head, saddened at leaving my surrogate family behind, exhilarated to be on the long road again, anxious for the same reason, and a little annoyed that my odometer wasn't working after all the preparation I'd done. At the bottom of the hill I turned right onto the asphalt towards my first hosts waiting 120 kilometers away, and with the adrenalin of a new journey I pedalled along at 20k/hr until realizing I'd better slow down a little if I was ever going to reach my final destination.

In Montecchio Precalcino, my friend and host Sabina had tried to drum up a little publicity for the start. I'm not big on publicity; during my walk to Egypt I had let publicity find me and not the other way around. But this time I was cycling to raise money for a cause, for two NGO's, International Rescue Committee and Polish Humanitarian Action. Without publicity there would be no one to donate to these organizations. But the media wasn't interested, so the starting ceremony was composed of the four members of the family that had taken me in and cared for me the previous three weeks while I earned a little money working on an organic farm. We'd said our goodbyes quietly, everyone was a little sleepy, and they'd stretched out a green ribbon in front of Knulp, my bike. I'd cut the ribbon, and Sabina had handed me half of it to keep. I tied it around Knulp's head tube, and off I went.

For the next couple of days I pushed hard, not so much because I wanted to, but because I had to to reach my hosts. I stayed near Mantova the first night, with Francesca, Gian Carlo and Nico at an old rustic farmhouse. It was a good ending for a hard first day on the road. We talked about everything and drank Gian Carlo's Lambrusco. I'm sure I've acquired yet another surrogate family with these guys. Francesca gave me a wonderful gift, a wish balloon, just like the one I'd seen in the desert in Sinai only a few months earlier. The wind caught it and it sped westward into the night, until it looked like a distant, flickering star. So my trip westward was assured, anyway. Gian Carlo gave me a bottle of homemade Lambrusco, and he was worried about the extra weight I'd have to carry.
"A bottle of your Lambrusco is weightless," I'd said, or something to that effect. By the time I'd  left Milan it really was weightless.

The next day I cycled 147 k to reach a host who was farther than I'd thought. Thirty plus kilometers farther. I was glad no one was cycling with me because they wouldn't have been pleased with my inattention to certain details, like where exactly the destination was. I arrived at 10 pm exhausted. I was fed well and immediately went to bed. The next morning I was off to Milan.

In Milan I did some house sitting for my friend Cristina, and some cat sitting, but her father, Renzo, came twice a day to cook for the both of us, so I'm not so sure I was really house sitting. Renzo helped me make Gian Carlo's Lambrusco bottle weightless. I also visited my friend Sara a few times. We'll meet again in Belgrade or Istanbul or someplace without even trying, I'm sure of that. I'm pretty sure we've met a few times in previous lives, if there are previous lives.

In Como, Italy I was invited to stay at a university dorm full of Chinese students by Qin. She made me a nice Chinese meal, unlike any meal I ever had at a Chinese restaurant.

In Switzerland I'd already paid for a few things with euros before I realized Swiss Francs are used in this non-EU nation. I just cycle on without a clue sometimes. I stayed in Lugano with Barbara, and as far as I was concerned I was still in the north of Italy as we ate loads of pasta and drank a little (ahem) wine. Just more of Italy but with a different currency, Swiss Francs.

After Lugano the mountains began , the real mountains, and by the end of a hard day I was camped by a river near Airolo and San Gottardo Pass, where I was stuck for a couple of soggy and somewhat anxious days in thunderstorms, as related in my previous post. I got through San Gottardo Pass, the highest point I would be in the Swiss Alps, and for the next two nights, as I headed towards Basel, I camped at paid campsites, there being no abandoned houses or discreet wilderness campsites in view. At both campsites I met people who are now friends, the first being a Dutch trekking cyclist named Casper who lives in Switzerland, the second a German woman named Julia who's got a Moto Gucci she travels on.

Then finally, Basel, where I stayed with high altitude hiking host Beatrice, and for the first night there, also with two travelling musicians from Germany and Sweden. With Beatrice I would get the opportunity to float down the Rhine River, through Basel, clutching my 'fish bag', a waterproof bag which serves as a container for your clothes and a float. It seems to be the thing to do in Basel in the summertime, as we were not alone. Beatrice gave me a tour of old Basel, which to me looked like a reproduction of something I'd seen in Disney World, somewhere in the Epcot Center maybe.

Switzerland is a bit of a paradise if you have a lot of money, or even if you haven't, if you've got people to host you. Everything seems... perfect. Cyclists have their own lanes, not only in the cities but also on big roads. There are roadsigns for cyclists. Motorists respect your space. And cyclists follow the rules. They stop at stop lights, stay on the bike paths. Having been trained on the streets of Milan, I was a bit of a renegade as I hopped from sidewalk to road to bikepath, cycling through red lights and down one way streets. People stared.
Yes, so, old Basel, like a Disneyland street reproducing old Basel. Or like a movie set reproducing old Basel. That's how perfect Basel seemed. Beatrice seemed almost offended by my referring to Basel as perfect.
"Zurich is far more perfect," she said.
She also pointed out the slightly less than perfect nature of her neighborhood, which is an immigrant neighborhood.
"Look at the rubbish," she said. But I noticed all the rubbish that had been put out was in perfect, blue, official Basel rubbish bags. No rubbish on the streets.
I tried hard to look for imperfections in Basel. While watching a concert along the Rhine I did notice a beer bottle floating by. Aha!
The night before heading into France I showed Beatrice my photos of San Gottardo Pass to impress her. She showed me photos of herself high atop even higher parts of the Alps, looking down from the peaks instead of up at them. Also photos of the Andes and other far more impressive places. Never try to impress the Swiss with your photos of mountains.

In France the bike paths and lanes stopped and I was once again being squeezed by big trucks onto the margins of the road.
I camped for the next two nights in farmer's fields, then cycled to my next host in Langres, a beautiful and interesting walled, hilltop town which I cursed at first, as I pushed my bike up the steep hill it was perched on.
I went to the tourist office first to meet my host's flatmate. Robin pulled out a map of Langres and circled the points I needed to know to navigate the two hundred meters to the house.
"Benjamin is waiting for you," he said.
I navigated the 200 meters successfully and Benjamin, my host, was indeed waiting. The house where he lives is built like a castle, and I had to push through two heavy doors to get into the courtyard. The house is shared by three families, but Benjamin's part of it is spacious, and on two floors. I settled in, had a shower, then got to see his studio, where Benjamin does his sculpting. There were statues and busts along one wall that he had sculpted, statues of soldiers from the 17th to the 19th centuries, and of fantasy figures, and medieval scenes. What was most interesting was that many of these figures were tiny; as big as your fingernail, but sculpted in fine detail. What talent! What finesse! Where I to try this the clay would end up in a little ball, flicked away into a corner.
Though Benjamin's studio is a bit like an artist's garret, he is by no means starving, as he sells these figures online for a price.
For the next couple of days Benjamin and his flatmate, Robin, treated me like a special guest and gave me a tour of the town, which boasts the longest fortress wall in France, and a trip to the countryside to visit the ruins of a Roman estate while having a French picnic. We also played an absurd game of antiquity while at this Roman estate, in which one has to throw a wooden disk onto a gravel filled triangle for points. As I couldn't get the disks to stick to the gravel, the game is absurd.

After Langres, I enjoyed the two most pleasant days of cycling I've had so far, along the banks of the Marne River Canal, often in the wilderness, or passing through tiny villages, and the path absolutely flat with few other cyclists. I stayed in Chaumont at the invitation of a med student from Catalunya, who invited me to an evening French BBQ at an old abbey. Then two more nights camping wild, once in the woods along the Marne, and once in a farmer's field before reaching Reims.

I'm staying in Reims, the city of the coronation of French kings, with my current host, Caroline. Cycle-buddy -to-be Brad is still in Paris, which I avoided as I had no host there (though I've been invited by two people since making that decision not to stay there). Brad and I will meet in the near future, I think, perhaps in Bavaria. Meanwhile I'm heading further away from Syria by cycling towards Belgium; Ghent, Brussels and Antwerp. I'll be looking for more work, any work, picking grapes, shoveling manure, anything to help me get on with my mission, which is this:

to raise money for the victims of the war in Syria.

Most of the population there has been displaced. They are homeless and without the basic necessities. If you would like to help these people, you can donate just ten or twenty dollars/euros to:

http://diy.rescue.org/cycling-syria  which will go to International Rescue Committee, or to:

http://www.pah.org.pl/wspieraj-nas/182 which will go to Polish Humanitarian Action. PAH regularly works inside Syria in the most dangerous areas to get goods and medical help to those caught in the middle of a sectarian war.

So please help. Merci!

Getting Through San Gottardo

It hadn't been a bad day cycling from Lugano to just a few kilometers short of San Gottardo Pass; I'd had a nice 50k/hr downhill ride into the UNESCO heritage city of Bellinzona, and then my first serious climb on a bicycle, which I managed to do successfully. I'd cycled 90 kilometers, and now it was time to find a place to camp so I'd be ready for the 2000+ meter pass through the Alps the next day.
I wasn't sure I'd find a spot, as the gorge leading to the pass was crowded with a river, two highways, train tracks and farms, and there was little space for a discreet place to pitch a tent. Getting a cheap room in Airolo, the last village before the pass, was out of the question, as cheap rooms don't exist in Switzerland. But just two or three kilometers from Airolo a gravel lane led down from the road I was cycling on, and to a spot by the river, at the sheltered corner of a farm. It was nearly perfect; the grass was cut short; in front of me were the river, high aspens, and the mountains; behind me a mountain; to my right a thick copse of trees and brush; to my left more brush, but also the only imperfection, a view of a brief stretch of the four lane highway. I sat and relaxed a bit before pitching my tent, then went about the business of setting up camp. The next morning I would cycle the 2 or 3 kilometers to Airolo, have a coffee, recharge my phone (and camera) battery, then climb San Gottardo Pass.

It began raining before nightfall. My tent had been given to me by a friend in Milan; the last cheap tent I'd bought was finished after a Balkan winter. As grateful as I was for the tent, it was made for fair weather, so I had to cover it with two tarps I'd cannibalized from the two previous tents I'd had. This left the lower sides exposed, and it wasn't long before the rain started dripping in. I covered my bike with the poncho I'd started my walk with nearly two years ago but experience had taught me it was far from waterproof. But it was all I had.
Along with the rain came the sounds of thunder. This was encouraging, as I thought it probably meant just a brief period of rain until the thunderstorms passed, but the rain and thunderstorms continued into the night. It became heavier, and at one point hailstones pelted the tent. The thunder grew louder, and more frequent, and there were many close lightning strikes; there was no time at all between the flash and the booming thunder. I sat in my tent occupied with damage control, mopping up the water with a dirty t-shirt and wringing it out through the front flap. I tried to position my things where the water wasn't dripping in, or to get them in plastic bags, but there was no escaping the saturating rain. Everything got wet, including my sleeping bag. Once the heaviest lightning had passed, I fell asleep, but I woke often to grope around to check the flooding (I had given away my headlamp in Egypt, thinking I was done with camping for a while). I woke another time because of the sound of the river; it had become a raging torrent, and I was worried it might overflow it's banks.The rain continued all night long, heavy at times, light at others, but it was incessant, and while the sounds of thunder were more distant, the sound of the river became a surging din.
In the morning I ate stale bread and granola cereal and washed it down with water. I still had another liter of water, and more bread, so I decided to wait out the rain. Surely it would stop soon. But it didn't. There were finally some breaks, about two minutes long (I timed them), just long enough for me to step out and check the river but not long enough to have a smoke before the rain came down again. The river had risen considerably; two boulders I'd seen on the opposite bank were nearly submerged, and a small tree near the tent was no longer there. The river was brown now, and violent, and whole trees sped down with it's current. If it got much higher I'd have no choice but to head for Airolo. I decided I'd wait until 5pm to make that decision.
By mid-afternoon the rain stopped for thirty minutes. I was tempted to pack up and go but decided to stay put. I couldn't stay in Airolo and I didn't want to climb the pass in this weather. The rain came down again but by five o'clock it had stopped, and I was certain it was finished despite the clouds still rushing through the gorge. There is beauty even in scenarios like this; smoke seemed to be blowing through the aspens on the mountain opposite me. The river, still torrential, was lower now, as I could see the tops of the boulders on the opposite bank, and the tree I thought had been washed away reappeared, its highest branches thrashing on the surface. Then the rain came again, and I spent another night in a soaked sleeping bag, waking to mop up the water.
All this time in a dark, soggy tent was trying, and aside from the constant mopping I tried to meditate, or write in my journal (I'd protected it enough so that it was merely damp and not wet), or sleep. I was going stir crazy though in the end.
In the early morning hours the rain finally stopped for good. I stepped out to see a few stars poking through the clouds and never felt happier. I could see the little tree near the tent, now nearly free from the river's current, still leaning but upright. At first light I spread my tarps on the ground and sorted things out, wringing clothes and knocking dozens of slugs off of just about everything. I put on my wet shoes and some miraculously dry socks, packed up, and cycled into Airolo, where the early risers looked at me as though I were an alien. I paid a small fortune for coffee and a croissant but I didn't care. After charging my phone, which serves as my camera and GPS, I cycled up into San Gottardo Pass.

Though the climb was a struggle-- it took me 2 1/2 hours to ride or walk Knulp up the steep cobbled road to the top-- I was absolutely elated. These are the moments I love being on the road. The view was tremendous, and I was moving again after being stuck in my leaky tent. I had told myself earlier that I would cycle all the way up, even if it meant stopping every two hundred meters for a break, but once I'd dropped down to the lowest gear and found myself pedalling as hard as I could to do 6 1/2 kilometers per hour, I did some walking. In all I probably walked my bike about half the distance up into the pass. The cobbled road made it that much more difficult to cycle up, and I took some comfort that the only cyclists who passed me going up were on bikes without any luggage. In the meantime, a dozen trekking cyclists passed me going the other way down the cobbled serpentine path. They cycled very slowly because of the steepness of the road and its hairpin curves, but also I suspect to keep from breaking the spokes on their heavy bicycles. I decided that once over the pass I would take the small highway down so that I could enjoy a nice long 50k/hr descent. I would learn later that this decision was a big mistake.
The top of the pass was socked in with fog, and dozens of tourists who had arrived by car were eating in a restaurant. A man was selling bratwurst for 5.50 Swiss Francs each, but despite the high price I was hungry so I bought one and wolfed it down. It was cold so I pulled out the only winter clothing I had left after so much time in Egypt and Italy, a sweatshirt with a hood. I found my highway and I was soon speeding down through the fog. From that point on, for the rest of the day I was braking and keeping my speed down to 20k/hr, first because of the fog, then the wind and cold, then, once again, the rain.
The biggest threat came once I'd broken through the fog. I released the brakes and sped along at 40k/hr before realizing I was shivering so badly I could barely control my bike. I managed to stop at a pullover and I nearly laughed at how badly I was shaking. I tried to roll a cigarette but after two attempts gave it up. After trying to warm up I continued down the highway at half the speed, but I was still shivering. To make matters worse, when I'd come around a curve the wind would hit full force, and that along with my loss of muscle control, speeding cars, and the absence of a guardrail had me wavering on the point of doom once or twice. I stopped more often and for longer periods to warm up, watching with envy as road cyclists flew down the mountain with their expensive, high tech foul weather gear. As I got lower it got a little warmer and the rain came down again. I donned my new rain poncho and mosied down the mountain,, no longer elated to be on the road.

By day's end the rain had diminished as I'd gotten farther from the pass, and I was resigned to finding another wilderness camping spot as my next host wasn't until Basel. This wouldn't have been a problem if I hadn't been so wet, but as it turned out I couldn't find anyplace discreet to camp, and I saw a campsite by the lake that Lucerne is situated on. Though it was 20 Swiss Francs for a place to put my little waterlogged tent, I could also get a hot shower, so I took it. I had my shower, dried out a bit, and enjoyed the scenery and absence of rain.
The campsite had several trekking cyclists in it, and having seen my 'Cycling to Syria' T-Shirts hanging out to dry, they were all very interested in my journey and incredulous that I was making it with such equipment. One of them, a Dutchman named Caspar, invited me for a drink. We had a good talk about bikes and routes and philosophy, and the next morning he treated me to breakfast and helped me out with a donation. When I hit the road again that morning, I felt rested and happy to have gained another friend. I was once again ready to roll.
For photos have a look at my Facebook page under 'Kenneth Lawrence Schroeder.'

Montecchio Precalcino, and the Official Start of Cycling to Syria

About a year ago, when I was walking across the north of Italy, a friend and I stayed for a few days with a family in the village of Montecchio Precalcino. In the short time that we spent with Sabina, Roberto, and Sabina’s sons, Alessandro and Christopher, we felt we had each gained a family. Indeed, over the next eight months, as I walked through the Balkans into Turkey, then travelled on to Egypt, Sabina was always there for me as though she were family. When overwhelmed by doubt, Sabina always sent an encouraging word. One night in my tent in frozen Bulgaria I was overcome by a feeling of utter desolation. I sent out a few SMS messages, hoping for any kind of a response, and Sabina was the only one who answered, all the way from Italy. When faced with financial difficulty Sabina helped me out with money; I never had to ask for it. The last donation I received while on my ‘peace walk’ was from Sabina; I would have arrived in Italy absolutely broke without it.

It’s no wonder then that Sabina and her family have been here for me in getting started on this new journey. While I was still in Egypt Sabina invited me to stay in Montecchio for as long as I needed to should I return to Italy. When I asked her if there was any short-term work available there, she said she’d look into it, and she did. As a result, for the past three weeks I’ve been living with Sabina and her family and for the past two weeks I’ve been working on a nearby organic farm, earning enough money to get me cycling and back on the road.

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I’m up before seven, but not for the farm work. I meditiate for 30 minutes with Roberto and Alessandro before having breakfast. Roberto seems like a guy who would meditate; he’s softspoken and spends much of his day quietly working in the garden and tending to household chores. Alessandro, Sabina’s 18 year old son, does not seem like a guy who’d be interested in meditation; he’s a heavy metal guitarist. But there we all sit each morning, in a little semi-circle, focusing on our breathing and trying to detach ourselves from our thoughts.

I set off for work at a quarter to nine. It’s late in the morning by farming standards, but Pierluigi is merciful to his short-term migrant laborer. I cycle up a steep hill from Sabina’s house, and within ten minutes I’m at the patch of land where Pierluigi and I have recently planted lettuce and cabbage. It’s not quite nine o’clock when I get there, and as I stretch the hose out from the water tank that Pier has brought in with a tractor, I admire the view from the hilltop. Then for the next hour and a half, I carefully and quietly water the seedlings until the water tank is empty. On this particular morning, I sing a bit, and I feel grateful, and I am consciously happy for the first time in months.  I’ve been brooding since Cairo, but that heaviness is gone. The feelings of loss and disappointment at the end of my last journey have vanished. The past is finished. New horizons lie ahead, but my renewed happiness comes from the present moment, and not from an overly optimistic view of the future.  Whatever the future brings, I’ll take.

After stowing the water hose I hop on Knulp and cycle down the steep hill to Pierluigi’s organic farm in the village. But for one stretch of rough asphalt, I let Knulp fly down the hill without braking, feeling the wind in my face and enjoying the silence of motorless speed. At the bottom I cross the road leading into the village and onto a perpendicular lane that borders the farm. A right turn puts me on a grassy lane taking me past rows of tomatoes and beans where three white chickens congregate every morning. As always, the chickens sprint directly away from my bicycle, and as long as they keep in front of it I keep up my speed, relishing in the brief chase. They finally break right or left and only then do I slow down to coast into Pierluigi’s driveway.

Before I’m able to get to my late morning work, which today will consist of stacking firewood and digging up potatoes, Pierluigi’s mother shuffles out of the house. I always hear her before I see her as she likes to chat, and as always she’s chatting about how hot it is and that I should have something to drink. Though it is only 10:30 in the morning she offers me a choice, water or beer. For now I choose the water. I’ll be driving the old Fiat tractor to load up firewood, and it’s best that I have my wits when I back into the narrow garage to unload. As I thank Pier’s mother for the water and walk away towards the Fiat, she’s still chatting.

For the next hour and a half I drive the tractor back and forth along a 30 meter stretch, loading the firewood piled outside, throttling past a half dozen bee hives, then backing carefully into the garage where I neatly stack the wood. Nearly every time I back into the garage, there’s Pierluigi’s mother again, chatting away despite my lack of comprehension, and offering water or beer. With thirty minutes left in the morning’s work I park the tractor and head to the potato patch with a wheelbarrow and pitchfork. Yesterday I was digging up red potatoes, which were small and scanty because of the winter’s excess of rain and the summer’s lack of it. But today I’m digging up yellow potatoes, which, though small, are surfacing with every turn of the fork. In just a few minutes I’ve already got a small load of them in the wheelbarrow, and when I push it back to the house, there is Pierluigi’s mom, a bottle of water in one hand and a big beer in the other. She looks at the potatoes with a smile and chats away. I’m sitting down to gulp the beer when Pierluigi arrives from his morning at the organic farmer’s cooperative. He gulps a beer down himself, rolls his eyes and laughs a bit as his mother shuffles about, talking, then he asks me to be back in a couple of hours. We’ll be working with the bees this afternoon.  But before I go Pierluigi’s mother gives me an ice cream, which I wash down with the last of my beer.

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I am as grateful for the employment Pierluigi has given me as I am for Sabina’s having asked for it on my behalf. The work that I am doing for him, he normally does on his own, or with the help of one of his sisters. He wants to help me to get to Syria though, and he doesn’t mind paying me to lighten his heavy work load. I enjoy working for him, as he is easygoing and intelligent. And though he is an organic farmer who is open to new ideas and theories, he’s got both feet on the ground. He works hard and his farm is productive. I’ve seen too many pretentious New Age permaculture or organic farmers whose farms are covered in weeds and producing very little because they spend more time on the djembe chanting for fertility than getting their hands dirty. Pier gets dirty though, and I get dirty with him, and when the work’s done we have a beer and a smoke and a few laughs. No subject is taboo, and our conversation will range from that of the typical laborer’s bawdy talk to the finer points of beekeeping to esoteric Tibetan longevity exercises to Rudolph Steiner on education or organic farming.

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I cycle back up the hill to Sabina’s, where the youngest son, 15 year old Christopher, has prepared lunch for the family. Sabina is back from work, Roberto has come in from the garden, and Alessandro has returned from his on-the-job training as an accountant. Just as one would never guess that Alessandro meditates, one would never guess he’s training to be an accountant with his long hair, sunglasses, knee-length shorts and Converse All Stars.  He prefers playing with his brother in their heavy metal band to the thought of being an accountant, but he also prefers the idea of having some kind of meaningful work to a life dedicated soley to heavy metal. But it won't be accounting, he says. 

Afterwards I race down the hill on Knulp, again speeding down the grassy lane at Pierluigi’s and chasing the white chickens. Pierluigi is already putting on gloves and his beekeeping hat, which looks like a Spanish equestrian’s hat with a net. It is hard to imagine Pier as a Spanish equestrian though. He's a bit too heavy for that. 

Pier has already trained me in the basics of honey extraction, and I follow him out to the hives which are only some 15 meters from the house. As he pries open the top of the hive I shoot a little smoke into the opening with a bellows to calm down the bees. I am unprotected but not very worried about being stung as I’ve found Pier’s bees to be as easygoing as he is. My first time watching Pier do his work I kept well away until Pier’s mother arrived, chatting away and marching up to the hive to pick up two honey-laden frames. Bees zipped around her but she kept chatting and ignoring the bees as she brought the frames into the garage. Since then I’ve felt cowardly not to march up to the hive as she does. I try to be quiet though, and a little slower in my movements than Pier’s mom.

Once we’ve got the first two frames out of the hive I carry them into a room to slice off the edge of the honeycomb so the honey can be extracted in a centifugal drum. As I slice, honey oozes out onto a tray and I can’t help but use my fingers to gobble it up. Parts of the honeycomb fall on to the tray as well, and I shove them into my mouth. The last time Pier was doing this job I had the honey and wax all to myself until some kids came in to compete with me. I’d found myself shamelessly consuming the honey as fast as I could to keep it from the boys. They’d been eating ice cream, so I’d thought it only fair. After slicing off the wax from the frames I put four of them into the centrifugal drum and turn the crank handle to get them spinning. In just a few minutes I reverse the frames, then a few minutes later remove them. They are feather light now, revealing empty honeycombs. The honey they contained is at the bottom of the drum. I then empty the drum to fill a large honey pot and repeat the process several more times. As a bee has entered the room, enticed by the honey, I close the doors and windows. Pier had warned me to do this as the bee will tell his buddies about where the stolen honey’s been taken and they’ll all return to take it back. I’m mischievously curious, and I’d like to see all the bees swarm into the room for their honey, but I’ve done my job and the lone bee will have to do his best to carry the honey back on his own.

I spend the last few hours of my workday in an open field, planting fennel and more cabbage. Pierluigi and I have measured out the distances between rows, and he’s given me a tape measure to measure out the distance between seedlings, in this case 50 cm or more. I’ve got several hundred to plant, and it’s nearly 40 degrees (C) so it’s the hardest work of the day. Unlike the little household garden where planting is slow and leisurely, this planting is done quickly or it will never get done. Every once in a while I have to stop to stand erect though. I may not feel 53, but I am. Other small breaks occur when Pierluigi’s mother makes her way from the house to the middle of the field where I’m planting. She’s got a cold bottle of water and a glass, and her chatting is never annoying. It is always a harbinger of refreshment.

Once the work is finished, Pierluigi and I sit in the same room where I did the honey extraction, drinking a beer and talking some more. His sisters arrive, and some nieces and nephews, and his brother and some in-laws, and there is some argument about what to plant next and where. Pierluigi’s mother and the oldest sister are ganging up on him. He looks at me and rolls his eyes.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes… si mama! Mama mia!” he says laughing with exasperation. Apparently his mother and sister have got their way.

I’m digging the whole scene, and I’m happy to be in Montecchio Precalcino. 

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But I'll be leaving this little paradise in two days. I'll hop on Knulp and speed down the hill before turning right towards Vicenza, then Mantova, Piacenza, Milan, Como and into the Alps, to Basel, and to Paris, hopefully by the 20th of August or thereabouts. Then to Syria. 

As I'll be officially starting my cycling trek to Syria from Sabina's house on Wednesday morning, those of you who would like to donate 10 or 20 dollars or euros to International Rescue Committee, or to Polish Humanitarian Action are welcome to do so. The money will not go to me, but to those organizations, and the money will help victims of the war in Syria. These people have suffered unimaginable loss through no fault of their own; they're caught in the middle of a sectarian war, so let's do just a little something to help them. 

To donate just look to the right at 'How to donate', select the NGO you prefer, and the NGO's page will take you from there.

Thanks!