sustainable transport

by

Floating Home

It’s been ten days since we first stepped off the South West Chief train into the Los Angeles sunshine. It was 6am and we were bleary eyed. Our get-away from Wisconsin involved a torrential down-pour that soaked our bike boxes and belongings, a 15 minutes-to-spare arrival at the station, a few desperately insulting Amtrak employees, and a mad panic that left Charlie and I separated, unsure of where the other was, each jumping between the closing doors, hoping like hell the other was onboard.

As the train pulled out, Charlie found me a few cars up, still struggling with our 6 or 7 bags. We threw our arms around each other, giddy with relief. Then he explained the bad news: our bikes hadn’t made it. They’d be on the next train (if only their boxes could hold together long enough). Finding our seats, we settled in for our three-day rolling adventure across America, finally able to relax.

John was waiting for us on our arrival, and sped us through the busy streets of building rush-hour traffic, to our new home off Palawan Way. With typical graciousness, he then found somewhere else to be for a few minutes, while we walked down the dock, to our floating dream. There she was. All beauty, all beat-up, all strength and character, as I had imagined. We stood together in the cockpit, disbelieving. Then we ventured down below, into the cosy cabin. It felt like home already! We giggled and sniggered, like a kid on a brand-new bike, unsure of how to express such joy.

We ought to have slept, at last able to rest horizontally, but at 9pm, after a day of sorting and cleaning, we looked around, saw it was dark, and wondered where the time had gone. Our first night was spent in perfect slumber, in the bow and belly of our boat, with the warm understanding that a new fire and adventure was now beginning.

Our bicycles arrived (somewhat unexpectedly) the next day, and since assembling them in the Amtrak warehouse, we have seen L.A on two wheels. We still haven’t ventured very far afield, but so far bike lanes and courteous drivers seem to be the norm rather than the exception. Our first priority has been to repair the engine, so many days have seen us scuttling around from shop to shop, looking for one part or another. We’re getting closer to the climax, and hope to hear the sweet puttering of diesel soon. That will be cause for celebration!

Which, speaking of, we’ve found no-lack of excuses for. Our first day marked a memorial of course, then the electricity hook-up (not as easy as it sounds on a floating home), then our bikes arriving safely, Charlie finishing his final class paper (and at last a free man) was another, then our week anniversary etc… etc…

And with only having finally hooked up our stove today (relying on the microwave until now), cafe breakfasts have been the logical and welcome feast for all our celebrations. Tomorrow though, to honor our propane efforts, it’ll be home-cooked eggs and bacon, with freshly brewed coffee! And our new little home will never have smelt so good!

 

by

A century or more…

My beeping phone goes off at around 6.30. I let it snooze a few times until finally the short fitful sleeps are worse than just getting up. The only way to rouse myself now is to let the air out of my mattress. Phhhhhhsssssssweeww. Ok, now I’m awake, this just isn’t comfortable. Around 7am I pack up camp, have breakfast and start thinking about the road ahead. I’m anxious to get the day underway, feeling strong and ready for a big ride.

Everything loaded, I hit the road. Now my muscles feel weak. My legs aren’t working properly, I feel like i’m pushing harder than usual and not getting anywhere. I check the trees for signs of blowing wind… nothing too bad. I glance at my tires every few minutes… they must be low on air. I even stop my momentum, lean over and check both. Nope, all fine. Now my chain is making a little more noise than usual – maybe I just need to oil it? This happens every morning, and I should know by now… it’s just early.

I pedal about 10 miles, until the nearest petrol stations or water stop. They’re hard miles though, and I’m doubting I’ll really push out 100 today.  I’ll usually buy a coffee or hot chocolate, at a $1.06 you can’t go wrong. I fill it up in my huge plastic cup (their’s is always styrofoam!) and do some stretches while I snack on more food. Ok, gotta keep going.

Until about the 50 mile mark, I feel pretty low on energy and not sure I can pull this off. I’ll stop every 15 or so, munching at every opportunity, whatever I can find in my bike bags… sugar, sugar, sugar, fruit, peanut butter…

I’ll stop for a big break around 60miles down the road. Never have a long stop on the wrong side of halfway! My legs are well-warmed up now, and I’m actually feeling pretty good. Life is great on a bike isn’t it? Just ride ride, stop, eat, ride ride. Chatting to local folk and getting past the first familiar few questions is fun, and I love reading the people here in middle America. Most tap their beer-gut and say “ooo, I could never do something like that, ho ho ho”. Of course I’m quick to tell them “oh sure you could! Just gotta start small!”

A quick few stretches before heading out again – my muscles are definitely feeling it. Now i’m doing 20mile blocks… either because I can go faster, or there’s just nothing out here. No shade, no water, no reason to rest. I keep reapplying sunscreen, but the sun out here is brutal. From 60-80 I start feeling pretty tired. Still another 40 to go? I try to look ahead, to see it as just two chunks, 20 and 20. Take a sip of water – It’s turned to tea already. Pedal, pedal, pedal. I’m almost wishing there was more traffic – every truck breaks the headwind and gives me a little tail push. I daydream a lot… using fantasy to push me through. Imagine buying and owning my own little sail boat… pushing off from the dock and raising her canvas. Or of re-united with old lovers and being around familiar faces. Mostly it’s about arriving. Just gotta make it to the coast. Water sweet water.

Wow, made it 80 miles. I stumble to the nearest shade, my knees are creaking and my thigh muscles pounding. Guzzle more water. Just a quick stop – gotta get back on the road.

These last 20 are just bliss. I know it’s my last leg, and that i’ll ride another century today. I’m proud of myself, and find it easy to boost my ego. My muscles are so well-warmed they are just powering up the hills and through the miles. My knees are aching a little, and I have to readjust my hands and ass constantly, every bit is well-worn and a little bruised. The sun is starting to come down though, and the fields take on a beautiful glow. Traffic has thinned, the shoulder is wide. I feel like Juno and I are one entity, well oiled and well used, made to ride together.

I normally end up pushing out another 6 miles or so, make it to a water stop, and smile at the day gone by. Passers by pull up in their cars and say “Too hot to ride today!”… or “Is it really fun in this heat?” Fun?! Hell yeah! Every day I can ride is a gift! Maybe if we all rode our bikes, it wouldn’t be getting so hot? Mostly I just grin, and munch on my musli bar.

My tent is up before sundown, I’m curled inside my sleeping bag writing in my journal and looking at the map. Every muscle aches, but the sweetness of lying down and falling into a deep slumber is indescribable. It’s what keeps me getting up and doing it again. 100 miles.

by

Part of the Frambly

“Of course, it’s not the same if you smoke out of curiosity and retreat, than belonging to the joint-smoker family, in which case life becomes bit by bit something flat. Investigators say so”.

No I didn’t lose my mind, or my English skills, but I did burst into a fit of giggles after Ava read this out to me from a (very badly!) translated Spanish newspaper somewhere off the coast of the Canary Islands. And that was only the first fit of the day, there would be at least a dozen more.

Ava is the just-turned 21 year old, Texan, or better put Austinite, who has been taking a year off language studies to sail the seas. She is almost always smiles, except when she’s not, in which case she bounds down the companion way, looks in all the cupboards and proclaims “Everything sucks!”. I give her a hug and we both break into a burst of laughter over how ridiculous this sentiment is. She was the optimistic, carefree Frambly member. We sung sea shanties together, gave each other massages almost every day and seriously chuckled a whole lot. I spent more than 50% of my day in hysterics. I can’t remember the last time I had laughed so much. Our friendship blossomed into a beautiful connection, and we both grew because of it.

Brad is the 36 yr old New York lawyer. He took things pretty seriously, and wouldn’t buy into our L.A.R.Ping pursuits but is a great budding philosopher and many an hour was spent together discussing our views and ethics. I can be known to chew the cud, so to speak, as good as the best of them, so it was nice to have someone else to bounce ideas off, argue and tumble over moral issues with. Brad would cook everything in his famous Tae Kwan Do position – legs apart, firmly planted, knees bent in a squatting position and pivoting at the waist from the sink to the stove. It seemed to work better than whatever I had going on, since one fateful evening my spaghetti sauce ended up over and under just about everything.

John is still John. The solid rock, ever inspiring, ever encouraging. He took every opportunity to congratulate, boost and marvel at all of our qualities. During the course of the sail I came to BELIEVE that I could do a great many more things that I had previously thought. I’d have a dream about some goal or other, mention a few pitfalls, and John would be the first to flatten them all, say “GO FOR IT” and convince me he was right. There were also less cheery moments, when we would have our ‘little talks’ and he would quietly mention things that needed improvement or that he was disappointed in. These times were obviously difficult for John, since he doesn’t like confrontation any more than I do, and hard for me to take too, especially since I have so much respect and admiration for him, but we both understood the importance of communication and struggled through them when the need arose.

We were a team. Every three hours, at a quarter to the hour, someone would come off their watch, gently wake the next person, pop on the kettle for coco and disappear up the stairs again while the other res-erected themselves from an often fitful sleep. We read Patrick O’Brian’s navy novels to each other, told jokes and countless stories. We powered on wind, water and love. From Europe to the America’s we consumed not a drop more than 10 litres of diesel. TEN LITRES! Our drinking water lasted, with plenty to spare, and what energy we used came from a line genorator spinning off our stern.  We obeyed Captains orders by clipping in while on deck, wearing safety gear and listening up when “Teddy Bear” was called. But really, in the end, we were just four friends on a fun adventure. We had great down wind cruising which we zoomed with thanks to the ‘Twizzle Rig’, a Genoa out on each side, held up by whisker poles and suspended in mid air. We had some rough seas and a little rain, but no gales or even any major squalls.

And finally, ghosting into the Virgin Islands at two o’clock in the morning, dark shadows of land all around, a summery lightness in the air – my life finally stopped becoming ‘bit by bit something flat’ and I had gained a whole Frambly of friends.

Bracing ourselves for sleep

Braford at the helm

freshly baked bread!

yes, my hair got a little WILD... it looks like it's about to eat Ava!

We made a log entry after every watch...

clip in, clip in, clip in, don't forget to clip in!

giggling, always giggling

by

A clear night…

A clear night. More shooting stars than time would allow me to wish on, falling flakes dancing in the sky. A million remain though, not a square uncovered, and I wonder how there can be any stars left at all. The phosphorous in the churning ocean almost a reflection of above, sparkling as we slice silently through the sea.  The only other illumination, excepting the compass glow, is an occasional red blinking seen in the distance amid the myriads of constellations. Quite apart from them though – unnaturally jarring and obvious. A moving target with none of the lingering magic of the meteors. An epileptic flashing I recognize well, though it’s been several weeks since the last.

I imagine them up there, eating their plastic meals and tuning into their plastic world. Each confined to their numbered spaces, a chosen cage. Cushioned chairs well accustomed to daily turnover, though showing few signs of wear or tear. They must endure this restriction for less than ten hours and yet have already grown restless. Relativity is only human though and perception will dictate the truth. Though I am bound to this boat – to its few meters – for over three weeks, I share their frustration and it is perhaps equaled in intensity. They drive themselves to distraction through a pixilated screen, I from a pixilated sky.  A blanketed sky of diamonds from which, save for that sporadic scarlet signal, shines a natural world beyond understanding. I am humbled by it, feeling magnificently insignificant and I do not envy them their fuel-indulged independence.

by

Reunited with Ramble

My first day back on “Ramble”, the old 36ft wooden yawl. Ava, Brad and John – aka ‘the crew’ – came to greet me by the ferry docks, though somewhat sleepy and hungover. It was a quiet chilly morning on a lonely island, Minorca, Spain. I was trying to muster up some energy, to be the enthusiastic, optimistic person I strive to be… only on this day, under these clouds, it wouldn’t come. I had left good friends and great loves in Barcelona, and felt as though this was the beginning of the inevitable fall off the edge of the earth. I would laugh but my heart would shrug, I’d smile but without a shine.

Still, I had the space and time to follow these feelings, and it was therapeutic to allow myself the sadness. I was surrounded by beautiful, melancholic sights too. Huge waves crashing against high cliff-faces, lone trees molded by the fierce wind, somber sunsets over restless seas. This was the beginning and the end, new worlds and uncharted adventures… though my heart was lonely, the excitement bubbled just below the surface.

Once we were under way, things lit up. Crawling into my front berth after my night watch, smiling contentedly as I listened to the ocean blow against our little boat. One leg out, or an arm braced against my lee-board to mellow the constant motion, my grin only grew with every wave.

There were rough nights. Evenings where, periodically, a wall of water would wash over you, freezing your knuckles still gripping the wheel. Where the swells were so great we would surf down them at 9knots and getting your gear (foulie overalls, foulie jacket, harness, radio, lifejacket, gloves, beany, gumboots, soaked socks) off downstairs was a slippery balancing act.

And there were calm days. Mornings where the sun rose late or not at all, the water we were gliding through turned into a silky stillness and fog crept up and all around. A lone branch floating in the glassy sea, probably from an African tree, and birds circling our mast. Where I would will the wind to blow, yelling up to a silent sky “come on Mother, I am TRYING to help you out here, give me some bloody breeze!” and turn the motor on muttering.

We sailed on from Minorca, through a near-gale to Majorca… waited for a weather window… then across and down and across and down and across and down, tacking and tack-tack-tacking our way to Gibraltar (though sometimes we were closer to Algeria)… provisioned, laughed at the oh-so-englishness of it all, then set-out across the channel to Morocco. A few days later and we were bound for the Canary Islands. Finally we were out of the Mediterranean, on our way and in the wide open ocean. There was no turning back now.

our beloved banana

miss Ava the salty sailor

really comfy, you just have to work out which way is downhill!

our home