NEW ZEALAND!!!

Back in the Saddle!

The closest I got to see New Zealand was sitting on the runway some 18 years ago, peering out of the tiny airplane window hoping to get a glimpse of this much-talked-about land. The pissing rain was so strong I could only see a few feet ahead. I couldn’t even have claimed to have set eyes on New Zealand soil. Back then I was 22 years of age, eagerly flying around the globe at breakneck speeds on a shoestring budget, with my 7 flights in any direction for a thousand quid STA student deal. New Zealand was a refueling stopover from Santiago, Chile to Sydney. That trip was the start of an insanely addictive travel bug that will no doubt last my lifetime. I knew I had to return to NZ.

Currently, I am sitting in window seat 38L on a United Airlines Boeing 787 plane, tapping away at my Chromebook to lay the foundations for this final journey, to complete the world by bicycle, New Zealand and then Australia to England. The flight is a 29.5-hour journey via San Francisco and Los Angeles arriving in  Auckland, New Zealand, 2 days later.  It's a funny thought that one and a bit days on a plane will equate to a year's worth of pedaling on a bicycle! Though at 40 years of age, with most of my friends married, divorced, with teenage kids, or all of the above, I am having a mid-life crisis of the best kind! Raring to hit the road for one last great adventure before I hopefully have a few baby panther cubs of my own to put on the back of a 4-man tandem!...whilst also massively aware of the big sacrifices I made to make this final journey happen.

Rewinding a few hours, the first, and most difficult part of a journey for me is getting to the airport. I have somewhat perfected the task of taking a bike on a plane after all these years, though it's never easy! I normally box the bike at home and get a lift or public transport to the airport. This year I thought I'd try a new technique - riding my fully loaded bike to the train station and dragging an empty cardboard box to then pack the bike at the airport. I had been visiting my brother for a few days in Haarlem, a picturesque town on the edge of Amsterdam, where he lives with his wife and 3, soon to be 4 crazy boys. The train from my brother's house to Skippool airport had several changes and I figured pulling an empty box would be a hell of a lot easier than dragging the mammoth 40kg box up and down various platforms.

The donated box was for an e-bike and so enormous that it spanned from one side of the carriage to the other - blocking not only 2 doors but the entire carriageway - perfect for the busy commuter train into Amsterdam! Thankfully the easy-going cycle-friendly Dutch had a sense of humor and didn't mind squeezing down the packed train to exit at the other end of the carriage. The big box big plus was that the bike dropped into the box with 2 wheels on and a foot to spare, no need to disassemble the bike whatsoever. Nothing worse than arriving jet-lagged at a foreign airport and opening a box full of nuts and bolts!

On arriving at the airport my next challenge is always the same, making the weigh-in! Several carriers allow a bicycle in a box for free as part of your checked luggage, so I always pick an airline that does. Making the 23kg max weight allowance and avoiding a huge weight penalty, especially on a world tour, is the hard bit! So I’ll let you in on my little secret…. 

1. Put all the heavy stuff (pedals etc) in a pannier bag and bury it out of sight.

2. Check the bike in and wait to be sent to the “oversized items” conveyor belt.

3. Grab your “heavy bag”, Re-open the cardboard box (or your ski bag for that matter), and tip all the heavy bits back inside! Ps: Remember to bring some sellotape to re-seal the box.  It works every time.

(The Pedaling Panther accepts no responsibility for people getting arrested at airports due to suspected terrorist activity following this advice!)

I found this technique works best when traveling with a partner - as one can hold the “heavy bag”,  while the other checks in and vice versa. Though it's a little more taxing on a solo adventure. On past trips, I  have asked random people if they could, “hold my bag” while I checked in, Though with a poor response rate and some peculiar looks I realised I was beginning to look like a terrorist! This approach may have worked better pre-September 2001. On this occasion, I  simply dropped the bag butt-up against the check-in counter, so it couldn’t be seen by the airline worker on the other side and went to check in at a desk further down. As I chatted away with the lady checking in my bike I completely forgot about my mystery bag.  Looking up ten minutes later, 3 staff members were circled around my bag making inquiries about the suspicious package, about to call security! Note to self, keep one eye on the hidden pannier bag!

All was smooth sailing as I touched down in San Francisco, transitioned through US customs, and collected the enormous box in order to reload it onto leg 2/3, San Fran - LA (a process that I find completely bonkers!) With 30 mins left before my Connecting flight and an interesting chat with a woman in the cue from Belgium, off to compete in The Iron man world championships, I made it through US immigration and dragged the box at pace through the terminal building towards the oversized loading bay. As I approached the oversized bay, the United Airlines staff advised me that, "the conveyor belt is broken, you need to take it to the check-in area further down the  terminal building." Stressed, Jet-lagged, and without sleep at what was now almost 10 am UK time I was beginning to get the hump! So what do you think the cocksure United Airlines flight staff said to me?? "That box is too big,  it's not coming on the plane!" TOTAL RHUBARB! I thought!

I'm not going to lie, and I'd like to say this was purely tactical, but I threw my toys out of the pram like a 6-year-old child! "That box has just come off a flipping United Airlines flight and it's going back on a Flipping (Ok, a similar word to flipping) United Airlines flight!” I snapped back in a huff, “And if not, I'm going to make you personally responsible!"

Crikey! I thought to myself, you're the same carrier as the flight the box has just come off! He still insisted that the box was too big. "How do you know it's too big, you haven't even measured it have you!? And you don't even know what the maximum size measurements are, do you!?" I retorted angrily, and somewhat unfairly to a probably overworked, underpaid airline worker. Though simultaneously thinking, what do you expect me to do if I can't take my bike, live on the streets of San Francisco, dump it at the airport, buy another 2000 quid flight when you could have quite easily taken the box - all that hassle because you can't be arsed to help me!?

"Well, I said, in that case, I'll make it flipping fit!" I ripped the gaffa tape off that had been gripping the box together and started beating the cardboard with my fist and kicking it in an attempt to condense the box. I don't think in reality the box got any smaller, it just changed shape, fell apart, and made a huge scene in the middle of the departures lounge! So much so that the man I had been arguing with came out of nowhere with a trolley and whisked it off to the plane! Lesson learned if in doubt act like a spoiled child!?

Barely making the flight after sprinting through the terminal, and less than an hour after the plane wheels had left the tarmac of San Francisco, they had touched down at LAX Los Angeles. An hour's walk through a never-ending labyrinth of terminals and dated connecting corridors brought me to the Tom Bradley International Terminal. The only slight hiccup this time was that I wasn't allowed to board the plane - without proof of a flight ticket out of New Zealand. Strange policy I thought. One that I had experienced years before whilst crossing from Canada to the US. Even if I buy a ticket I pondered, if I decide to illegally stay in the country, I just won’t get on the plane!? Anyway, I had to do a quick calculation in my head as to how long it would take to cycle across New Zealand, and booked the cheapest flight to Melbourne around that date, showed her the screenshot, and jumped on board.

A 13-hour flight later  I was finally In New Zealand!  Unfortunately, the Blue Bullitt wasn't! Had the United Airlines staff taught me a lesson and wheeled my bicycle into a San Fran skip and not aboard the plane I thought? I had good reason to be anxious. A friend of mine, The Viking,  had waited a month for his bike to arrive in Anchorage, Alaska. I had met Viking,  a 6-and-a-half foot monster, an ex semi-professional rugby player sporting a huge beard and plaited ponytail, whilst cycling across Burma years before and mentioned to him that he must, "cycle from Alaska to Argentina''! The Viking agreed, and unlike most of the population that drift through life, is currently making his way down the US coastline en route to South America as I head the other way! Check him out - Benson the Biking Viking - is his Instagram name. 

Thankfully there was to be no repeat of the Vikings misfortune and 24 hours later I was about to  be reunited with my 2 wheeled friend. Apparently, it had got stuck in LA and was loaded onto the next flight. Looking out of the plane window as the plane touched down on New Zealand soil, the first words that came to mind were, Jurassic Park! I passed through immigration very smoothly and grabbed a coffee. I had been awake for almost 2 days straight and needed it. How bloody expensive that coffee was! I was to be in for a shock with NZ prices, even before our brilliant new prime minister managed to nearly collapse the UK economy overnight! Leaving the airport I took a bus into Auckland and booked into a very overpriced Chinese-owned hostel. At forty years of age, I had promised myself I would not be staying in any more hostels. Though with all my savings in obliterated shares and spiraling inflation I opted to change that policy! Still unsure when my bike would arrive I decided it wise to book the 2nd night just in case. With all of Auckland's hostels fully booked for the weekend, I opted for a yoga retreat on the edge of the city. Just as I booked the accommodation the phone rang to say the Bullet had arrived. Back to the bus station I returned - and jumped on the airport shuttle to collect the bike (see pic!). The rest of the people at the NZ airways lost baggage counter had been waiting over a month for suitcases that had been found.....and lost again in some overseas airport. Luck was on my side.

I disposed of the infamous supersized box and pedaled back to the shiny skyscrapers of Auckland city centre, grabbed a boat from the docks across the harbour and pedaled again to reach the yoga retreat in Auckland's northernmost suburb, Albany, arriving at dawn. The reception was closed and my key was left in an envelope sellotaped to the door. My first taste of NZ hospitality was a room left in a shit tip by the previous guest! One of the long-term residents kindly lent me some sheets and on the plus, the night was free of charge. I went for a wander, had a refreshing dip in an old but decent unheated outdoor pool, and went to the lounge area, where I fell about laughing. I was greeted by 5 middle-aged hippies, one had her eyes closed and was dancing around the room pretending she was on a higher spiritual plane, looking more like an escapee from the looney bin. The others, wearing their Thai elephant wanker pants tried to suss me out in my sporting attire. Now, I do love free-spirited people, but these idiots were clearly on an ego trip and like an Eckhart Tolle audio book on repeat! “We only have the now” one kept saying! Say something original, get on your bicycle, and lose your beer gut I thought to myself! I’m being excessively mean here I realise, I just find anyone wearing 80’s bodybuilding wanker pants who purposely show off their hairy armpits too easy a target!

First night on the Road - Firth of Thames

My route through the north island took me south to Tauranga before heading inland to Lake Taupo and then dropping down the west coast to Wellington. I had left England smugly thinking I was about to jump straight from British summertime to a sizzling New Zealand spring. Well, I did, for a day! And was then hammered by every type of weather you can imagine. Sideways rain, hail storms, driving head-on winds, and a smattering torment of sun. To top it off, I was going the wrong way! The winds in New Zealand this time of year were predominantly southerly and I was agonisingly going head-on against it. On the worst days, I was moving at 6-7mph hour after hour, cursing out loud! That was the bad news. The good thing about cycling in the crap weather was the country offered free hot baths. The number 5 road heading south from Rotorua is called the “Thermal Explorer Highway”. Nothing beats freezing your tits off in a tent at night more than jumping into a hot spring the next morning! The road was littered with them, steam rising from either side of the highway like a Jurassic Park movie. The only thing more unbelievable was that rich overseas tourists were paying top dollar to use artificially constructed spas a few miles up the road in the tourist hotels of Rotorua. More money than sense!

The Thermal Explorer Highway

If you haven’t been to New Zealand you should! Think of the British Lake District on Steroids, then throw in some snow-capped mountains, beaches from the Caribbean, and a Volcano for good measure! From Rotarua I headed past the enormous Lake Taupo and one of those apparently snow-capped Volcanoes, Mt Ruapehu. I say apparently because despite camping at the foot of it I never got to see the damn thing! It was constantly smothered in clouds. Anyway, it's a live volcano and the largest of its peak is just under 3000 metres, home to the only ski resort on the northern island. Heading south I took the small roads (via Pipiriki) and followed the west coast down to the capital, Wellington, where I stayed with a London friend, Harry. One of several of my friends who had lead a hedonistic intoxicating life in London and was struggling to readjust to a more relaxed pace in his home country! The capital city is set in a beautiful bay surrounded by mountains with a mix of old British style and modern buildings, and for me, is far nicer than Auckland (the Miami of New Zealand). It is also one of the few places in the world that rains more than England. And It rained all weekend!  

Arriving in a wet & windy Wellington to complete the North Island - ferry terminal in the background

Rewarding myself with a huge hotel buffet breakfast - Wellington

I set my alarm for 5AM and left Harry’s house in the dark for the ferry port. The ferry journey linking the 2 islands to  Picton (at the top of the south Island) is said to be one of the most beautiful ferry crossings in the world. I haven’t taken every ferry in the world, though I wouldn't be surprised if it was “THE" most beautiful ferry crossing, well, second to Dover - Calais of course! The 3.5 hour ferry worked its way across the Cook Strait surrounded by lush native forest and clear waters as it entered the archipelago of islands and into the tiny port of Picton. My bicycle was stored on the lower deck, next to the train carriages. Yes, train carriages, the rail track went onto the boat. This is not a joke, like a fireman taking a hose into a lift, the train tracks actually went into the boat and dropped off the carriages. A point which may only be interesting for oddballs like me that go out of their way to visit the world's transport museums! 

There were only 2 roads south from Picton, and one was closed because of a mudslide. Decision made easy I set out on the number 6 route over the mountains and along the rugged west coast. The kiwi roads were very rough, unlike the smooth surfaces of much of Europe and America, and went straight up the mountainsides (literally 20% gradient at times) instead of snaking up them like the swiss mountain roads. Throw in a strong headwind and NZ is a pretty good place for those that like torturing themselves on bicycles! The west coast was extremely remote with very little passing traffic and would follow the coast with huge waves crashing in before repetitively snaking inland for a huge climb and returning back to the Ocean.

Talking of snakes, I was about to comment about how New Zealand had none of the raw dangers of Africa and other continents  I'd cycled;

Rocks thrown at me, men chasing me with spears, camping with big cats and bears, stung by stingrays, dragged into operating theatres by drunk doctors or rape attempts by one-eyed men in Mexico.....

Until I was attacked by magpies that is!! It first happened on my very first day on the north island. A cyclist approaching the other way shouted at me, "watch out for the magpie!" I laughed and gave them the thumbs up, must be some sort of friendly cockney-type rhyming slang I thought! Then, out of nowhere, a huge magpie dived down at my head like a Japanese world war 2 Kamakazee bomber!!  "F OFF" I screamed, as it came within inches of my helmet. It obviously understood and it performed a dramatic U-turn into the skies, only to prepare for another attack! This must have happened on 5 separate occasions with multiple attacks each time. Cycling with my head tuned backwards at 180 degrees whilst throwing desperate haymakers into the air wasn't how I envisaged cycling New Zealand. Speaking to locals, apparently this defensive (or purely cheeky) aggressive act was pretty common. One piece of advice was to put twigs in my helmet. Twigs in my helmet!?! Wouldn't this make a bird more likely to go for my head!? I'm still trying to figure out if someone is seeing how many foreign cyclists are prepared to look like complete idiots with a John Rambo style camouflage on their head - or if this is sound advice with good scientific reasoning!

I typically did between 80 - 100 miles per day. Progress with the head on wind was severely restricted. Unlike my race from Alaska to Argentina and Cairo to Cape Town 5 years ago, where I was up against the clock. I had decided to slow things down a little! My technological ability had improved somewhat and I had now figured out how to download an audiobook. One book that I was listening to in NZ was called, “The Midlife Cyclist”.  A brilliantly written book which challenges whether someone middle aged (a category I apparently now scrape into at 40) can  train and race as hard as someone in their mid 20’s. I'll let you read the book, but essentially the answer is yes and No! We need more protein, occasional impact or weight training for bone density, to listen to our bodies and not to constantly try and beast ourselves! 5 years ago my daily mileages were often between 110 and 135 miles for weeks on end! Cycling 90 miles I would get up and feel great, though 100+ mile days on the bounce I figured could do more harm than good, and was also extremely hard work!

Camping in a wooden mountain hut I came across to avoid a heavy overnight rainstorm

The 6 coast road took me to the Franz Josef glacier at the foot of mount cook. In need of a hot shower I checked into the glowworm hostel. Owned by the eccentric Benjamin. His parents at one point owned 17 hostels throughout New Zealand, which all started by converting the building next to their farm in to a backpackers. He was a lovely chap and a natural salesman, tempting any backpacker into his hostel with a newly installed hot tub and free vegetable soup. His real party trick was a collaboration with a friend who owned a bar in town. They had bought a huge white stretched hummer which would arrive at the hostel at 7pm and take everyone to the bar....which was 200 yards around the corner! I spend my day off doing the 5 hour hike to the glacier. Well, at least that's what I thought, the glacier had retreated up the mountain and the path terminated at a viewing area with the glacier in the horizon.

Hitting the road, the last point on the coast was a tiny town called Haast, from which point the road chucked left and headed very steeply inland,  up into the mountains towards Wanaka (not Wanker, as I previously thought the place was called) and Queenstown. The latter being a mecca for the rich. A perfect  playground for everything outdoors. Based on a beautiful lake surrounded by snow-capped mountains, snowboarding, bungee jumping, downhill mountain biking and heli-skiing were all moments away. The cheapest house in town was a million dollars - and with most of the land being owned by a handful of people they made sure it stayed that way! Most of the foreign workers were living out of bunk beds in hostels with the rental situation making London look like a dream!

New Zealand was one of the last countries to open from the pandemic and the tourist Industry had taken a huge hit. Recent inflation of flight prices hadn't helped matters either. I would often find myself camping in the bush, awake the next morning cold and starving and excitedly cycling towards a standalone cafe in the mountains, my mind fascinating for hours about a hot cappuccino and muffin…Then, as the cafe finally became visible on the horizon and my mouth started to dribble imagining stuffing a muffin down my neck with two hands.....…..saw the windows boarded up with a “for sale” sign outside! This happened several times. A can of cold sardines in the rain was little compensation as I refuelled my body with enough fuel to make it to the next town. Speaking of food, the price per kilo of tomatoes was 20 dollars (over a tenner!) and broccoli for 7 dollars each! One time when I bought a small salad tomato, the lady on the checkout was convinced it was a vine tomato and I was purposely disguising it! She even got the assistant to go to the veg section and check it. To be fair I have been known to do this on occasion, though I felt like I was trying to pull a scam on a rare diamond in a jewellery store! It's the first time I've sliced up the stalk of a broccoli and chucked it on my stove.

The food prices were made up for by the generosity of the people, which I can't finish this chapter without giving a few example:

1) Free bacon and egg sandwich from the lady at the pink cafe.

2)When buying an inner tube and offering to give my spare one for free (which had the wrong valve type and wouldn't fit my rim) the lady bunged my tube into the box and said, "here, just take it!" Mine was a completely different tube to the brand on the box, but I wasn't complaining. Inner tubes in New Zealand cost 17 bucks!

3) When Terry, originally from Yorkshire spotted my old touring bike leaned against the supermarket, while he was doing his groceries. He immediately came over for a chat - something I experienced everyday on my journey through NZ. Terry must have been in his 80's and still cycled to the supermarket on the touring bike made by his friend for him in 1987. When asked where I was going, my reply was "overland to England ''. His response was simple and sincere, "good man". When asked if his children cycled, he replied, "they don't like suffering like me!" and which way I should go through Australia, "through the middle". I know if Terry was half his age he would have joined me there and then. Meeting people  around the world like Terry is what makes cycling the world so special.

4) On checking in to Christchurch international airport, where I currently sit in the departure lounge concluding this blog awaiting my flight to Melbourne, the check in lady could not have been more of a legend. Time and time again flying with a bike had been a pain in the ass, with airlines constantly trying to charge me extras for the bike or refuse to take it all together. As I plonked my bike on the scales and it almost doubled the max weight of 20kg, the lady said with a smile, go around the corner and unload some stuff then bring it back to me (knowing full well I was going to chuck it right back inside).

The final day on the road was a big one, Queenstown to Invercargill. Invercargill being the most southerly point in New Zealand, and the Lands End of New Zealand for anyone cycling the country, it was the natural finishing point.  Many people asked me, “why Invercargill!?” From their voice tone  it appeared that Invercargill was the Hull (voted Britain's shittest city!) of  New Zealand with an apparently bland countryside on-route. Invercargill may not have been flashy and outspoken like Queenstown, but I preferred it. It had old buildings and a soul. That apparently bland countryside was still pretty damn nice too, the worst of what New Zealand had to offer would be the crowning jewel of most countries. As the land flattened out with fewer mountains to channel the wind I forgot how easy it was to cover big distances under more normal conditions. I wanted to see if I still had it in my engine to knock out the big rides  (as  I did 5 years ago) and pushed on to do the 120 miles in one day and finish with a flourish. 

I arrived in Invercargill with goosebumps on my arms not wanting to stop to just beat nightfall. I checked into the only hostel in town, a beautiful wooden Victorian style building with hints of American Influence. Huge high ornate ceilings and Big Victorian fireplaces with an old American wooden veranda. An older kiwi guy staying in the hostel looked at the state of me and gave me a plate of vegetables and then the kind owner of the hostel told me to take the big room with a huge bed and charged me 30 bucks (dorm price). There is definitely something to be said for dressing like a hobo at times! It seemed a fitting end to a very beautiful and hospitable country!  

Hostel in Invercargill

After a couple of days of looking around the town and not enough time to cycle to Christchurch for my flight home, I jumped on the bus and thoroughly enjoyed looking out of the window and effortlessly gliding through the countryside. Arriving in Christchurch, I met an old friend from London, Mark, who had moved to New Zealand 10 years ago. We had ridden from London to Paris many years ago. I had actually seen Mark on my very first day In New Zealand. However, not as I expected. Mark is a good-looking git and as a part-time male model is the face of an outdoor shop - a big poster of him in the window caught me off guard and made me laugh out loud as I passed by on my very first day in Auckland! He’s not your average boy band type though, when not strutting his stuff he works as a welder producing huge pieces of commissioned metal artwork.

Road trip with Mark to a remote campsite on the beach - & a freezing cold sea swim to say farwell to New Zealand.

Next stop Australia!!!!!!!!

BACK ON THE ROAD!! ...The lost journey from Zambia to Cape Town & A New chapter....AUSTRALIA to ENGLAND!!

My attempt to finish my blog back home in London after breaking my computer halfway across Africa was a poor one. Having the memory of a fish and being back in a country that rains cats and dogs was never going to be the most inspiring place to start re-capturing that adventure into words again! To briefly recap, my initial journey had taken me a total of 46,000 kilometres on an old blue bicycle (The Blue Bullet) around the world. The main routes were from:

1) ASIA:

Delhi, India - Laos (including Nepal, Bangladesh, Burma, Thailand and Japan) - On leaving UK soil back in 2016 - my idea had been to cycle from Delhi to Singapore, set up a hostel and never return! After a broken foot in Laos and much thinking time, that idea changed & a new plan was hatched..... to cycle the entire globe!

2) THE AMERICAS:

Anchorage, Alaska, USA to Ushuia, Argentina (The very top of North America to the very bottom of South America)- 7 months and 27 days   

3) AFRICA:

Cairo to Cape Town (The whole length of Africa) - 3 months & 3 weeks

However! After a successfully approved second sabbatical and a flight ticket in my hand to leave for New Zealand on Wednesday (September 21st 2022) and a gigantic proposed journey ahead - pedaling back from Australia to London, England...............I guess it's time to get the show back on the road! More of the route, and the last 4 years later, first it's time to finally tell the lost journey, as much as my memory will allow, from the Tanzanian/Zambian border to Cape Town, South Africa.

Trying to accurately re-tell the whole expedition from the Zambia border to Cape Town would do it a disservice. Instead, I'll simply tell the few bits I remember from the few notes I jotted down at the time.....

As a globe-trotter, nothing brings more excitement and trepidation than a new border crossing. That is especially the case when you're on a bicycle and not prepared to take lifts. One unsuccessful border crossing can lead to a 1000-mile detour to obtain the correct paperwork from a capital city or having to re-route through a different country altogether.

"Do you have a visa?" The Zambian immigration officer asked me, As I approached a wooden box the size of a portaloo, the official Zambian border post. With more hope than confidence, I replied, "I don't, but you can buy them on the border!".

"Yes, you can" came the reponse to my sheer relief! My remote route through the jungle meant I hadn't passed a single major city in Tanzania in which to find an embassy and I had to rely on hearsay that I could buy a visa on the border. Successfully into Zambia, my plan was to head west towards Botswana and then swing a left down the South Atlantic Coast of Namibia for the home straight into South Africa.

The capital city, Lusaka, was a mere 1049 kilometres from the border. But before that, there would be a few interesting stops on the way. The first was Mbala. A small town just 40 km from Tanzania but of huge historical importance. It was here that the German forces finally surrendered at the end of the first world war. The signing of the armistice had happened 3 days earlier on 11th November 1918, though it had taken 3 days for the German general Von Lettow-Vorbeck to receive the telegraph...and let everyone know!

That evening I treated myself to a campsite. A rarity in Africa and a little treat for another successful border crossing. Lake Chila Lodge campsite was owned by a much respected local entrepreneur called Geoffrey Chilla. He had worked his way up from a cleaner in a hotel to the proud owner of 2 lodges. I asked Geoffrey if I could swim in the Lake, he looked at me like I was bonkers (the 20-degree water temperature was far too cold for any local African to take a dip!) Either way, he assured me the lake was Crocodile free and in I went. The coolish water working its wonders on my hammered cycling legs.

After my swim, Geoffrey went on to explain that the bottom of the Lake was littered with thousands of World War 1 German Artillery. This was the spot where the Germans had been forced to dispose of their weapons. It was a strange feeling to think I was swimming on top of WW1 killing machines dumped some 100 years ago. How different my experience of that lake in 2018 must have been compared to the German Infantry of 1918.

My next port of call would be Shiwa Ngandu. An English-style country house in the middle of Africa, not far from the town of Mpika. The house, known as "Shiwa House", was the lifelong project of an English aristocrat known as Sir Stuart Gore-Browne, who had fallen in love with the country after working on the Anglo-Belgian Boundary commission. I've always loved eccentric people (and old houses for that matter) and this bloke must have been up there with the best. He was clearly completely bonkers and I had to see his house in the flesh! Apparently Mr Brown had wanted an estate like his rich aunts in Weybridge though couldn't afford one in England, so decided to build one right there in Africa.

Construction began in 1920, the only problem was that his chosen site was 400 miles from the nearest railhead and there were no roads!! Consequently, he had to employ hundreds of labourers to make their way 400 miles over rivers and swamps and build a road before he could even start the build. The bricks then had to be made on-site. On his death in 1967, he remains the only white man to have ever been given a state funeral. He must have been quite a man. Needless to say, my visit to his crumbling British mansion set in the African wilderness did not disappoint. In fact, there was nobody at the house when I arrived, I found an open door...and had the place to myself. I hope you didn't mind Mr Brown!

My notes from this point on are even scarcer... though after staying on a farm with a family of White Zambians I met on the road, I took a b-line in the direction of Botswana. Cutting diagonally across the country with some big days in the saddle I eventually hit the nation's capital, Lusaka. It was definitely no New York City but had a collection of big shiny buildings, no doubt built by the Chinese. It was a good chance to stock up on supplies before heading for my last town in Zambia, Livingstone, home of the incredible Victoria falls. Africa's largest waterfall  (1708 metres wide) was discovered in 1855 by the Scottish missionary David Livingstone, who named it after Queen Victoria - though I'm sure the Africans must have known about it before, you couldn't miss the thing! Anyway, at the time of my visit, it was so powerful that up close you got soaked and couldn't see a thing due to the massive amount of mist pumping off! Though from a distance, you could definitely appreciate the magnitude of the beast!

After crossing into Botswana, I found myself on a remote road with no towns and villages for miles. It was somewhere on this road, after the spectacular sight of a giraffe running across the open road just in front of me, that night fell and I found myself equidistant between 2 huge national parks. When I say national parks, I don't mean places with picnic tables...but an empty road cutting through huge expanses of African wilderness littered with predators... including large cats! I clearly wasn't going to get out of here by nightfall and with zero passing traffic came to the sudden realisation that the pedaling panther would be a very tempting meal that night.

I kept pedaling in hope of some sort of lifeline, acutely aware that nightfall was when the big cats came out to feed! Then, in the distance to the right of the roadside, I could see a huge red and white satellite tower. At the very least I could climb it and hang out up there all night - better a night without sleep than eaten in my tent alive I thought! As I neared the structure things got better still! It had a chain link fence around the bottom of it...I climbed inside and immediately started climbing the structure to take in the spectacular view.....looking down at my surroundings with a huge smile on my face, all fear vanished from within me. I took no chances and pitched my tent on the lower part of the structure, as I remember, it was a peaceful night's sleep!

My only other significant memory from Botswana was of camping next to someone's house and being offered a prayer by the village elder. I'm not particularly religious, other than when I'm camping in the African Bush! Though this prayer was the work of God. I struggled to keep my eyes closed as the elderly man and his lady friend let out a series of high pitch screams, squeals and other Hyena-type sounds!! 

Namibia, my penultimate African country was a very different-looking Africa. Incredibly dry and arid, the Namib desert stretching along its Atlantic ocean, had a feeling of being almost non-African with its alien-looking landscape and clean and efficient-looking towns and cities. I was not surprised to discover the Germans colonisers had something to do with it! I visited its impressive capital, Windhoek, 1700 metres above sea level on the Khomas plateau, before the very German-sounding town of Swakopmund on the Skeleton Atlantic coast. It was here I intended to celebrate my 36th Birthday....May 14th 2018.

(Windhoek)

A lot of my friends ask me the leading question..."you must meet loads of chicks on the road!??" Yes, you undeniably get a good amount of kudos for cycling continents. And there is no better compliment for your ego, than reaching a hostel in a major world city and walking in like Clint Eastwood with a bike over your shoulder. Especially when some peacocking Australian male backpacker is mid-story about being the only backpacker on the bus! "Bus did you say?!" Or commenting to a preacher like a dreaded hippy that their bus travels are bad for the environment - to which of course there is no comeback!

However! believe it or not, you don't stroll across many single attractive women in the middle of Africa, Bangladesh, or on top of the Andes mountain for that matter! Doing 100+ mile days on a bike smelling like a treadmill towel, your often just passing through places.....and women certainly don't often come knocking on your tent door at night either! This can be a problem, especially given the well-known fact that huge exercise overload puts your endorphins.... and therefore libido to stratospheric levels! On top of that, I wasn't sure that Africa was the place for a bit of relief! The HIV rate in Swaziland for example was a staggering 26%!

I did however, whilst treating myself to a glass of wine or 2 on my 36th birthday in a hotel bar in Swakopmund, decide to fire up the old Tinder. Swiping left and right I soon got chatting to a girl who claimed to be a news anchor, thoroughbred I thought! After a bit of persuasion, I convinced her to join me for some drinks in the hotel bar. It was an interesting chat, especially when I discovered that she was the sister of the first lady of Namibia!! - with the evidence to back the claim. Shame I wasn't in England, then again, even if Lizz Truss had a sister I'm not sure the tabloids would have paid much for the story! Anyway, as the drinks flowed and the evening progressed I found myself being escorted out of the hotel bar for my kissing antics in the female toilet. Class! With everywhere closed we ended up on a bench overlooking the Atlantic, right outside her parent's beach house (not your normal African family).

As the temperature plummeted we decided to continue the adventure in her parent's house. Unfortunately, she had lost the key to the gate and was understandably too scared to knock on the door and wake her parents. Which parent would agree a stranger coming into your home to visit your daughter at midnight!? We decided it would be wiser to climb over the gate. As she drunkenly climbed the wooden gate it not surprisingly broke, generating a sound that woke her father! He went ballistic! I decided it was better to scarper. We arranged to meet the following day instead. Arriving at her property I knocked on the door to find a stranger opening it. At least I thought it was a stranger until the girl started talking to me like she knew me. The wig!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (and make-up) had been removed and I simply didn't recognise her....or find her attractive anymore! I stayed for a coffee and made a speedy exit!

Back on the road, Cape Town felt as though it was in sight. I followed the main road tracking a train line heading due south, waving at train drivers as I went. Crossing into South Africa things felt very different to the rest of Africa. For the first time, I witnessed intimidating groups of young men and the obvious use of narcotics. The innocence and friendliness of the other nations I had cycled through seemed to have been lost. Maybe the wealth divide there had caused that to occur. It felt ironic, as for most people South Africa is the only African country they see as being safe to travel! Though overall, it was a spectacular country and I met many incredible people there. I will simply repeat my social media post from my arrival in Cape Town on 25th May 2018 to conclude, I don't think it leaves anything else to say.

END OF THE ROAD! 46,468 kilometres riding my bicycle around the world 🌍has just finished here at the bottom of Africa, Cape Town, 3 months and 3 weeks to the day after leaving Cairo, 7673 miles ago. NORTH AND SOUTH AMERICA, and AFRICA top to bottom and ASIA (Delhi to Laos and Japan). It's been the best journey of my life and I have no regrets! There is no better way to see the world than on a bicycle! It has taken me from below minus 10 in Alaska camping by the roadside with bears to melting at plus 50 in the world's hottest 🏜 deserts. From the roof of the world at Mt Everest in Nepal to the incredible Mt Fuji in Japan to the glaciers of Patagonia and rainforests of Central America to the beautiful coastlines of the world's greatest oceans.

It's not all been plain sailing, and pushing out 100+miles day after day can make you go a little mad.... but the crazy times have been the best stories! Since leaving Delhi I've had police escorts clearing the road with machine guns like I was King in Bangladesh 🇧🇩 , cycled past giraffes and elephants in Botswana, been stoned in Ethiopia, stayed in peoples homes more times than I can remember.. Including a one old eyed mexican man who got a bit carried away in the middle of the night!.. I've been dragged into a backstreet hospital in India by a drunk doctor and made to watch a gallbladder being pulled out, slept in mud huts in Sudan, cycled past the great pyramids of Egypt, ran over a cat in 🇵🇦 Panama which jammed in my wheel and threw me over the handlebars, broke my foot in Laos, bought a classic car in California - the green machine, been on TV in Chile and left lieing on a deserted beach half paralysed in Mexico screaming out loud thinking I was going to die after being stung by a stingray!.. But I wouldn't change any of it.. Well.. Maybe the old man bit!
The world over, rich and poor people have been incredibly good to me..and there are definitely more good people in the world than bad!.... If you want to do a similar trip, I have a bike for sale.. One careful owner.. Low mileage :-) ☓

                THE END!............ well, halfway maybe!

Going back to England after 18 months on the road was never going to be easy! Firstly, after 18 months of continuous cycling, I could no longer run! Even jogging was immensely painful. I guess my muscles had been conditioned only to cycle, it was a bit worrying at first but eventually improved. Whilst back at the Old Kent Road fire station, My new manager was trying to ram the new health and safety book down my neck! After being chased by tribes with spears and having rocks thrown at me in Ethiopia I frankly didn't give a rat's arse about wearing a life jacket and harness in 2 inches of water! Getting the hump and thinking my next immature provocative move would get me fired, I immediately decided to apply for another sabbatical to commence the following year. That didn't happen!

Little did I, or the rest of the world know that someone in a city called Wuhan, China was about to bite the head off a bat and slam the entire world into a pandemic. The NHS were in a whole load of shit (and I was about to be too - literally!) and in response asked the Fire Brigade for volunteers to drive Ambulances to assist the paramedics.......or wrap up and collect dead C-19 bodies. The latter to my amazement received the most volunteers - morbid firefighters!

Me and my friend Bat were the first to volunteer from the Old Kent Road and went off to Wembley football stadium for our induction, uniform and to get partnered with a Paramedic. It was a grand event with a big photo session on the pitch, a chance for the Fire Brigade to win some good PR ....and for the firefighters to boost their egos with some heroic social media posts. You would have thought they were the chosen few boldy entering Japan's Fukushima Nuclear power plant to save the day following the 2011 nuclear meltdown - at the risk of certain cancer!

There had been numerous rumours that a lot of the Paramedics were hot Australian women and Batty had begun bragging to everyone at the station that he would be getting one. After being partnered with a tall good looking 23-year-old Ozzy girl and seeing Batty with a fat know it all middle-aged English bloke, with a million stories about himself, I was pretty pleased with the way things were going so far.

My posting was Westminster Ambulance station, a gem of a station tucked away on a quiet road in Pimlico.  I rocked up on my first day keen as mustard......with my sleeping bag under my arm, to the amusement of all the ambulance staff! I wasn't hopeful for a fire brigade night shift but thought it would help to get some shut-eye between calls. If they thought my sleeping bag was funny, you should have seen their faces when the infamous Mick Measham walked through the door moments later with a full mattress! I had to admit it, he'd done me there!

Batty, Nicole & me

Before working with Nicole, my first shift was spent getting to know the ropes with 2 experienced hands. My first call was to an old man in his 90s, a former city broker still wearing his shirt and braces. Anyway, he'd shat himself, badly. We were tasked to get him off the floor. As we lifted him up he kept calling me "young man!" whilst gesturing a camp hand signal to me. "Welcome to the LAS" I thought! The next 6 months were wildly entertaining. In the early days of the pandemic, we raced around abandoned central London streets and stopped at the city's top hotels for free grub (they had dedicated themselves to feeding the Ambulance service and I wasn't objecting). I couldn't stop chuckling to myself as people saluted and applauded from the streets as I drove past - if only they knew Dr Panther's level of first aid they would have ran a mile!! Things got serious at times and pumping away on a man's chest in cardiac arrest and picking up vomiting heroin addicts was no easy task. Full credit to Nicole, she was twice the man I am. After 6 months I'd burnt out already and threw the towel in.

The rest of those 4 years were spent trying to escape the Lockdown, taking my chances on the property market and a couple of big rides on a yellow tandem. Driving down to Cornwall on my 4 days off was not received well by the grumpy Cornish locals. My rusty van did not blend in and could be spotted a mile away. Every time I tried to camp they would follow me and threaten to call the police! With winter approaching and another lockdown on the verge of being announced, I booked a few weeks of work, headed for the port and made the great escape to Sicily. Remarkably, my rusty brown 1981 camper made it 99.99% of the way, breaking down 100 metres from the campsite I was heading for on the edge of Palermo. The old people from the village had to push me in and I pleaded with the campsite owner, Pasquale, to let me store her there. I was due back at work and said I would fly back in a couple of weeks to pick her up. To cut a long story short, 2 weeks became over a year as Italy was thrown into long-term travel lockdowns.  I eventually picked her up (after having to fly to Malta, take a boat then cycle across Sicily to the campsite!). Finding her covered in moss and leaves, God knows how she started, never mind drive all the way back to London! Though that was little compensation given that my annual storage fees totalled more than the value of the camper!

Sicily.....shortly before breaking down

In terms of cycling, which getting back to the point is what this blog is supposed to be about! I did 2 very memorable tandem trips with a fantastic girl I met called Daz. They deserve a blog of their own. One was London to Italy, crossing the Swiss Alps, which, if you've never ridden a tandem and want a decent way of decreasing your sperm count, is a good way of going about it! Tandem cycling seems to have gone out of fashion the last few decades, I don't know why. It's a brilliant way to travel, you can both talk (unlike 2 solo bikes), go fast on the flats and you entertain everyone you pass. However! On the downside - uphill is excruciating - you're stuck in the saddle and can't stand up, and if you're a bloke with a set of balls, you can expect them to be clamped to the saddle for hours at a time! 

The other journey was The USA coast to coast. The moment the states finally opened their doors after Covid we booked a flight to Los Angeles and cycled the 3000 miles to San Augustine, Florida in 35 days. Crossing the States truly defines "coast to coast", Pacific to Atlantic. Daz is fit as a fiddle and was sensational. I just had to steer. One funny moment I must mention from that trip happened when we arrived in Palm Springs. We were pedaling through the town centre, on a road with a sign which instructed motorist's to "watch out for cyclists". Despite this plea to show a bit of respect for those saving the planet on 2 wheels, an old man screamed past us narrowly missing us, shouting, "get out the road you fucking cock sucker!!" Both shocked and slightly amused I couldn't let this pass and laughed out as load as I possible could to try and antagonise the grumpy idiot!. His response, more shocking still, was to slam his car into reverse and back up the 2 -lane dual carriage way directly at us! We had to jump onto the pavement! The US was one of the most friendly nations I've cycled, this was a little reminder that you can meet idiots anywhere!

That will do for now! Flying to New Zealand in 3 days time. Time for one final trip of a lifetime to complete the continents of the world on a bicycle! 

Pedalingpanther @40!