This is an excerpt from Changing Gears: A Family Odyssey to the End of the World by Nancy Sathre-Vogel. Together with her husband and children, Nancy rode her bicycle from Alaska to Argentina. Changing Gears is her travel memoir from her time on the road.

“This looks like home,” I thought as I pedaled through the altiplano. The desert of southern Idaho looked very similar with its wide open spaces lined with grasses gently swaying in the breeze. The only thing missing was sagebrush.

I found a beauty and tranquility in the desert; there was something about it that drew me in. I knew some felt it was ugly with the scrub brush being the tallest thing around, but I loved it. It was home.

“This reminds me of the tundra,” Davy interrupted my reveries. “Remember when we first started our trip and it was just flat tundra forever? This is almost the same, but we’re a lot higher now.”

I didn’t relish the idea of frigid temperatures, high altitudes, or unrelenting sun of the altiplano, but the wide open plateaus with sweeping vistas of the snow-capped Andes captivated me. Having the freedom to explore the land and discover hidden treasures that could only be found while riding a bicycle made it all worth it. Whether it was an alpaca herder who was honored that we spent a night with him or bright green cactus growing in intricately fine sand with 21,000-foot peaks in the background, each day brought new and unexpected adventures.

“Where are you headed from here?” Ami, the hotel receptionist in a small hotel in Oruro, asked as we checked in for the night.

“Tomorrow morning we’ll head out for Potosi!” I told her. We were excited to be continuing south through the altiplano and couldn’t wait.

“You can’t go to Potosi,” she replied.

That made no sense to my American way of thinking. Potosi was the fourth largest city in Bolivia; of course we could go to Potosi.

“Potosi is completely blocked off. You can’t get in. There is a strike going on and the entire city has been sealed off – nobody in, nobody out,” Ami continued. “The big news around here is that a group of tourists finally managed to escape the city yesterday after being trapped for thirteen days.” Ami handed me a newspaper with the story on the front page. A group of 37 tourists had finally been allowed to leave after being held in the city for two weeks.

“That’s perfect,” John said when I told him the news. “They’ll block the road for cars, but we’ll get through on the bikes. The road block will mean no traffic so it’ll be perfect for us.”

The more we learned, however, the less we thought it was wise to continue on. We could most likely get through, but everything would be closed – all stores, all restaurants, all hotels. Once we got into the city three days away, then what?

We decided to hang out in Oruro until the strike was resolved.

“It’s getting worse,” Ami told me when I walked downstairs for breakfast the next morning. “The news says they’ve taken control of the hydroelectric plant and are threatening to shut off power to the city. That would also affect the water supply. The news reports are saying there are already serious food shortages in the city. It’s a good thing you didn’t go.”

It was Day 15 of a strike designed to pressure the president of the country into providing certain development projects in the city. Local officials had shut down the city and vowed they wouldn’t relent until they got the promises they wanted. We sat tight, watching the news and hoping they could resolve their differences.

“You guys need to leave,” Ami said as we descended into the lobby on Day 17 of the strike. “Word on the street is that they will close Oruro if the president doesn’t meet their demands.”

We scrambled into action getting the bikes out of the storeroom, packing everything, hauling it all downstairs, and loading the bikes. I ran over to the ATM to get more money out, just in case. Within two hours of hearing the rumor, we were off. Off for a scenic tour of Bolivia.

Our plan had been to stay on the altiplano, a high, flat plain sandwiched between the two arms of the Andes, and we had planned our route impeccably. We knew where the water and food sources were and knew exactly what to expect. Now, that plan had come to a screeching halt and we had changed gears. The only other route we could take involved going up and over the eastern arm of the mountains, then dropping down into the Amazon basin before turning right and heading south to Argentina. It would be a 400-mile detour, but we had little choice.

We knew nothing about our new route. Our map showed a line on the map, but we had no idea where we might find anything. I was nervous as we pulled out of town, knowing we were sorely unprepared for what lay ahead.

Thirty miles later we pulled up to a small restaurant and started talking with a bunch of truck drivers. “Where are you going?” they asked.

“Cochabamba,” I replied. “How’s the road?”

“You’ll climb for another 45 miles,” came the reply. “The top is at around 5000 meters.”

5000 meters? That was 16,400 feet! We pedaled away hoping beyond hope they were wrong.

High-altitude climbing was hard. Climbing was tough enough at sea level, but at fourteen thousand feet, it was insanity. We gasped for air as we pounded the pedals and slowly made our way up.

Fortunately, the truckers were wrong and we topped out at 4496 meters (14,744 feet). Even so, that was higher than the highest peaks in Colorado.

It took us an extra three weeks of pedaling to reach Argentina, but in the big picture, what’s three weeks and an extra 400 miles?

This summer I did a mini bicycle trip from coast to coast in Wisconsin, which means from the Mississippi River to Lake Michigan. With more than 15,000 lakes, it’s an interesting fact that Wisconsin’s has more coastline than most states, including California. Wisconsin also has the largest bicycle industry, the first rails-to-trails conservation project and some of the nicest bike trails in the world, and I mean that literally. And lo and behold, I discovered another interesting fact: apparently, according to this sign pictured below, Kermit the Frog is an indigenous species of Wisconsin. Wow!

More pictures and a mini-movie to come.

Update: The team is just a few days from reaching their goal, and little did I know when I first posted this story that my friend (more of an acquaintance, but I like to think of everyone I meet as a friend) and fellow world cyclist, Mark Beaumont is on the boat as both an oarsman and cameraman. Good luck, guys. And Mark, hope you brought your bike, because you can do several laps around the world up there.

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British explorer Jock Wishart and Old Pulteney Single Malt Scotch Whisky have unveiled a remarkable mission to conquer what could be one of the world’s last great “firsts” — the first rowing attempt to one of the world’s Poles.

The challenge will take place in July/August 2011 and is of global significance as both a pioneering maritime adventure and an environmental expedition. The planned 450 mile route across the Arctic sea starts in Resolute Bay in Canada with timing being of the essence as the final section of the journey is only navigable for a few weeks of the year before refreezing. It has only become possible to consider an attempt like this in recent years due to the increase in seasonal ice melt and the much-documented deterioration of the Arctic landscape.

Preparations are already underway for their August 2011 attempt:

• A recce of the route took place by plane in August 2009
• An advanced rowing boat design is being constructed to make it possible for it to be man-hauled across the ice. At a later date, this specially designed boat will be unveiled – believed to be the first ‘ice boat’.
• Jock has begun the challenging process of selecting his crew who will activate a ‘three on, three off’ rowing and resting regime.
• Planning has taken place with scientific research partners to deliver environmental data and insight from the journey

Follow their adventure here:
http://www.rowtothepole.com/

Here’s a little story from Peter Gostelow, a friend cycling Africa that recently had a misadventure. As an interesting side note, Peter had a standing invitation to join his adventure, and had I more money and more time, I would have been there with him. We are all wishing him a speedy recovery.

I probably would have walked away unscathed had I not put up some resistance. It was a natural reaction to hold onto my camera bag and ruck-sack as they were being pulled out of my hands. I let go when the machete slashed through my wrist.

I ought to start at the beginning. This post was going to be about my impressions of Dakar and the nearby island of Goree, instead it is a description of how I was attacked by five men, two of whom were wielding rather large machetes.

It happened around 8pm last Saturday night, right outside the International School I’d been speaking at the previous week here in Dakar. I was walking along the corniche – a large, well-lit and usually busy road that runs along the coast.

My assailants were wearing flip-flops.  It was  the sound of their footwear along the pavement that I heard first. When I turned round the five bodies had surrounded me. They were all black, young and two were wielding large machetes. The blades looked old and rusted. There were shouts, possibly in Wolof, as hands began to tug at my bags. I was wearing a small black day-sack on my back and an SLR camera was in a bag across my shoulder.

Those first few seconds were surreal. I didn’t accept it was a reality until I’d  moved backwards into the road and fallen onto the tarmac. I watched  car headlights approaching and wished they would come quicker. When they did the horns sounded and the vehicles swerved around me. I thought the vehicles would stop and deter the five. At first none did.

The bags were still in my possession at this moment. It was when the machetes started slashing in front of my face and one connected with my wrist that I let go. It was probably at this moment that my wallet, buried deep within a zipped pocket of my trousers, was taken too.

Within seconds the five had run across the road and jumped over a wall on the sea-ward side of the corniche. I got to my feet in an attempt to chase them. One of the attackers had yet to jump the wall. I cried out from several metres away. He turned and looked at me nervously, then threw the empty camera bag back, before disappearing over the wall.

It was then that I looked down at my arm and saw the gaping slash. My left foot had also slipped out of my sandle. I thought it was sweat that had caused this, but a pool of blood was collecting here too.

By this time (about 30 seconds later) a number of cars had stopped. A French woman opened the car door and yelled for me to get in. She said she had seen everything.

Blood was oozing out of the wounds as she drove me to a hospital. “This is the best one in Dakar. Don’t worry”. I didn’t really register the words so clearly. I soon started to feel dizzy and was moved onto a bed in an operating room.

I don’t know how much time past  before I woke up. The Director of the International School, who’d arrived shortly after me at the hospital, was still there. It was good to see an English-speaking face.

The hospital discharged me yesterday. My wrist and foot have been stitched up and I have a course of antibiotics and painkillers to ease the discomfort. I can’t put any weight on my left foot and know it will be some time before I get back on the bike.

Very fortunately I’m being well looked after by an American couple from the school. I entered their house as strangers last week and they now feel like the closed people around me.

Now that I’m out of the hospital and reflecting back over the incident I realise things could have been much worse. I know I should have let go of my bags instantly. It is what my host, who was also mugged with a machete along the corniche last year did. Judging by the looks of their faces I don’t think it was their intention to really use the machetes. They were possibly as scared as me.

There was a moment, whilst I was awaiting the anesthetic and looking up at the fluorescent strip-light above me in the hospital bed, that I said to myself – “now would be a sensible time to quit”. What the hell am I doing riding a bike through Africa when in the space of two weeks I’ve had both my cameras stolen, all my money taken and my arm and foot slashed with a machete? Sure there were incidents of theft when I cycled from Japan-England, but nothing like this.

The truth is I’ve put a lot of thought and energy into The Big Africa Cycle. I’m determined to complete what I set out to do at the start, and continue fund-raising for the Against Malaria Foundation. Senegal has dealt me some blows, but to quit in the face of them is something I feel I’ll regret down the line.

Tomorrow I will see the Doctor and hopefully get a better knowledge of how long I’m looking at for a full recovery. My mum has booked a holiday to see me in The Gambia in several weeks. It is not far from here, but I don’t think I will be riding my bike there somehow.

Who is The Hungry Cyclist?

Here’s a guy that combines two of my loves of life—bicycling and eating. I expect he’s got some great recipes for grasshoppers somewhere in here :)

In his words:

My name is Tom Kevill-Davies, I love riding my bicycle and I love to eat. It really is that simple. As a journalist, author and photographer I enjoy writing about and photography almost as much as eating and cycling, which basically means, I bicycle to wherever I can find good, well prepared, locally produced, fresh and traditional food before eating it and writing about it.

Since returning from a 2.5 year pedal powered gastronomic quest through the Americas in Search of The Perfect Meal, I have written my first book and am now busy planning my next gastronomic pedal powered quest along the Mekong river.

via The Hungry Cyclist – Cycle Touring & Eating The World

Here’s a couple exploring what it means to “live outside the lines”.

Here’s a clipping of their latest blog. Be sure to visit their site for more info.

Photos: Smith River Redux By Russ | September 18, 2009

Two years ago, Lauraand I went on a tour with some friends down the Oregon coast. It was our first big tour and everything was so intimidating and harrowing. Perhaps the toughest stretch of the trip which has been forever etched in our minds was the two days from Reedsport to Eugene. It is about 90 miles and goes along Smith River. There are two decent size climbs and no potable water or services along the way. When we did it 2 years ago, we were pretty green as far as tourists go. We didn’t bring enough water or food for the crossing. It was also in the 90s and low 100s, we ran out of water and I was overheating pretty bad. I instantly went into survival mode after we got lost in the poorly signed BLM land. It was not a good time.

via Photos: Smith River Redux | The Path Less Pedaled.

Chris Pederson and Danny Stitt are about to begin a bicycle tour of Africa. They will be taking the eastern route from Kampala through Tanzania and Mozambique. Their final destination will be Cape Town, South Africa, arriving in April of 2009. Their pace will be a “leisurely” 60 to 70 miles per day with 2 days of rest after 5 days of riding. (09-26-2008)

Wish I could share a couple days with them.

See a map and read about the journey in their own words

Ian Hibell is a bicycle tourer that makes me feel like I should take the training wheels off my bike. Ian traveled 10 times further than what I did, about the equivalent of 10 times around the equator over his 40-year travel career. Apparently he was the first man to ride from the top of the Americas to the bottom, including the Darien Gap in Panama, which is a swamp land full of banana boats and drug smugglers. He did a lot of truly amazing things, but was unfortunately killed last August by a hit and run accident in Greece. Read a tear-jerker about Ian in the Economist.

by Andy Ganner TAIWAN

I had no wish to cycle in Taiwan – it’s only because a mate of mine teaches English in Taipei. We split mid-2002 after we’d overlanded from England to Singapore over an eleven-month period and 22,000kms together. He left for Taiwan, I went to Germany. Now we were meeting up again – on his turf.

Toby had become fat! We cycled together from Taipei to Sun Moon Lake in the dead centre of Taiwan, over the highest pass on the island at 3,275 metres, and had a bloody great time together. Here he had to get a bus back to Taipei, quite a few pounds lighter, as he had to teach on Monday – I continued through the mountain roads southwards – towards Kenting, Taiwan’s southernmost point.

After another ball-busting hill at +30C, I met Travis, a mental (but nice) Aussie guy on a “borrowed” moped. He’d changed the 3s to 8s with a marker pen on the number place in case the police were looking for the bike! Travis had a length of rope and a sweaty gauntlet, he said he’d pull me up the next big hill. We did 116 miles that day, and 3 big hills. I’d come off my bike 3 times, one arm and leg was caked in blood, and after swapping hands on the rope alternately, both arms felt as if they had been pulled out of their sockets.

Travis spotted a huge monastery and said, “Let’s crash out there, I’ll get some beers from town before we ask. Wait here”. Momentarily forgetting the rope was still wrapped around my hand he sped off, and once again I was thrown to the ground!

The monks allowed us to stay, eat with them, and say prayers. The following day we left early. Travis pulled me to the top of the last big hill and was then off – I’d never see him again, he was to become one of those legendary crazy guys you meet when travelling.

It was 16th July, a lovely day, and I was freewheeling down the mountain and passing through Maolin. From here the road went directly south till it met the coast. There were mountains to my left and the coastal range to my right was getting smaller – the wind picked up from behind, the sky was blue.

Suddenly clouds came over the hills to my left and the wind behind me started to push me like a powerful hand… then it started to piss down big time! I sheltered in a roadside shrine with a couple of old geezers for a while until I realised this storm isn’t going to let up. It must be 20 miles, if that, to the coast… I’ll go for it.

The rain and wind were actually very pleasant, the rain was a much needed shower, and the wind helped me to cruise at an easy 40mph till I reached the busy coastal highway – no hotels to be seen… I continued in heavy traffic for maybe another 15 miles before finding some beach cabins. I checked into one for the night, complete with resident ants and biting mozzies.

The next day was worse… I found out that I was in the middle of Typhoon Kalmaegi. It was wipping up the east coast, rotating anti-clockwise, so on this coast was blowing south. What the hell! I set off for Kenting, the wind pushing me at record speed, palm trees bent double, sheets of corrugated iron flying over my head, orange flood-waters from the mountains cascading over the road into the sea… Was I crazy? You bet… cycling through a typhhon was better than sex at that moment!

I arrived in Kenting in record time and checked into the shabby DV Hotel, the only window to the world was cable TV. Kenting is a trendy resort, but during this typhoon it looks like an old English seaside town in January – depressing.

I waited a day for the typhoon to disappear, it didn’t, got restless, and sped off fot Taiwan’s most southerly point – an anticlimax. The path down to the obelisk was tiled, wet, and covered in leaves. I was careful on my fully-loaded bike until, about 50ft from the southernmost point when a group of Taiwanese returning from the viewpoint started to run like headless chickens at the sight of me on my bike. I braked – and wiped out! And slid on my arse to land directly at Taiwan’s southermost point, much to the amusement of the locals!

As for the next 10 days up the Pacific Coast – in one word: Wonderful! Some of the best cycling I’ve ever done. I recommend it to every bikepacker….

ANDY GANNER. Düsseldorf – Germany. December 2008

andyganner [at] web.de