Kellen Smetana
When we left Madrid all that remained was a six-day ride to Lisbon.  To Lisbon!... To the Atlantic!... To THE END!  Had we really arrived at the final week of riding?  Throughout the trip, we always planned for the next destination:  8 days to Urumqi, 2 days to Bishkek, 3 days to Samarqand, 3 days to Zaragoza.  This was the final destination.  It was a strange feeling to know that there would be no other afterwards.  No more cycling, no more traveling; only salt water, big smiles, and a cold beer.

It took three long days to speed ourselves out of Spain.  The tail end of Spain included our longest riding day of Europe, yet more glorious sun-drenched Spanish weather, endless fields of olive trees, and enough cured meats to inspire fantasies about future grocery lists.

Crossing the border to Portugal, one of the first conversations Bill and I had started something like this, “So, what is the deal with Portugal?  I mean, what are they known for?  Is it just a mini-Spain?”  After a quick brainstorm, Bill contributed cork trees and I Port wine, and with that, we had ourselves a nice little stereotype for the country, removing its potential mini-Spain status.  We had a good laugh at our naïve labeling but soon found the stereotypes to be strikingly true.

Not even an hour into the country, we began to see fields of odd-looking, numbered trees stretching to the horizon.  Upon closer inspection, we realized that these trees had all been stripped of their bark and that this bark was actually an inch-thick layer of cork.  We later discovered that the painted numbers coincided with how long ago the trees were stripped and that Portugal is very much known for their cork products: they hold 50% of the world’s cork trees and are responsible for 90% of cork processing.

On the second to last day, it was not so much cork that interested us, it was wine.  All through Europe we passed vineyard after vineyard after vineyard: we photographed them and slept in them, sampled grapes and restaurant “vino de casa,” debated wine production, wine types, and wine psychology.  But never did we stop in one to chat with the experts and tour the production facility to settle these discussions once and for all.  For weeks it had been on our “to-do list” and it was certainly a lot to hope for, but we thought there was a chance we may get lucky.

Following a funny mix-up at an exclusive spa resort we thought was a vineyard, we did get lucky.  We found a vineyard with a reception and small shop and after we explained our story, it turned out they were thrilled to show us around.  Alberto, the master wine engineer for Vale do Chafariz vineyard, spent three hours with us touring the production, ageing, and packaging facilities, answering our incessant inquiries (at one point he even busted out hydrocarbon atomic formulas), and leading a private wine tasting that left us drunk into the evening.  It was an absolute blast and a perfect cap to all of our wonderful “vinho” and vineyard experiences of the trip.

The next day we awoke with jittery anticipation.  This was the day we would reach Lisbon and the Atlantic; this was the day all riding would come to an end.  We planned it to be an easy, short ride into the city, but – as was a more appropriate end to the trip – it turned out to be much more of an adventure than we expected.

After fixing a final flat in the morning, we made it to one of the two bridges across the Tagus River into the city of Lisbon.  As was always the case over the last seven months, we blew through the toll booth without batting an eye.  This time, however, alarms rang and we thought we heard people shouting.  Bill and I looked at each other questioningly: “Ahh, let’s just keep going,” we decided.  “We’ll be in Lisbon before they even care.”  Wrong.  Not one kilometer later we were being escorted off the road by a tow-truck and police car.  Apparently they didn’t want bicycles crossing the bridge.  We played dumb and they were actually very nice while delivering the bad news that we had to ride 60km out of our way to a smaller bridge north of the city that would allow bicycles.  Our easy day just got a lot harder.

We had to haul and haul we did: flying to the bridge, wolfing down lunch, and churning back towards Lisbon.  Bill had a Skype date scheduled that evening, and we still had to make it to the city, swim in the ocean, and find the apartment of friends with whom we were staying.  Late afternoon, we cut right across the heart of Lisbon and kept pedaling to the Atlantic.  Fifteen kilometers later, we stopped at the edge of the sea.

October 21, 2011.  203 days, 16,497 kilometers, 3 bouts of food poisoning, 32 flat tires, and 53 dog chases after setting forth from Hong Kong (4,979km from Istanbul) we finally reached the Atlantic Ocean.  It was the symbolic end to possibly the greatest adventure of my life.  We both wore huge smiles and ran out into the water like little kids.  I felt very proud for actually making it from sea to shining sea – Portugal certainly seems far when you’re navigating the jungles of Southeastern China.  Standing on the rocks, watching the sun drop in a hazy sky out over the Atlantic is an image that will be forever burned in my mind as one of accomplishment.  This was a moment I knew was coming and one I had thought about in one sense or another nearly every day for the last year; now it was one I will never forget.  The bikes survived, we survived, and we had a little fun along the way.  And the icing on the cake, as you may have seen in his comments to the Pyrenees blog post, is that we just “pipped” Central Asian partner and dear friend Theo, who cycled into his home in Norfolk, England on October 22 (beat you by one day, Mr. Brun… haha).

After an ocean-size photo shoot, we turned from the Atlantic back into Lisbon.  In one hour we procured a map, ripped the map, borrowed cell phones, lost cycling gloves, crisscrossed Lisbon, and found our friend’s apartment with 15 minutes to spare for Bill’s scheduled call.  (We're getting pretty good at this)

After his Skype chat it was finally time to decompress.  We were staying with a couple of girls Bill had met at the hostel in Istanbul while waiting for Cory and me to arrive.  Bill and one of our hosts Alexandra had challenged each other to a race from Istanbul to Lisbon; she took a plane, we took our bikes.  We lost, but it seemed to work out well because she was there waiting for us to arrive.  Continuing the tradition of the Iberian Peninsula, they were absolutely wonderful hosts.  We had our own room in the apartment and the first evening they invited us to a delicious Portuguese dinner they were hosting.  We shared stories with this jovial, funny crew and celebrated the end to our trip late into the night.

The next day we boxed up the bike, packed away the gear, and prepared for the arrival of Bill’s dad and brother.  Sunday morning, Mr. Conry and Mike landed in Lisbon for a week vacation in the city.  We quickly had them out and about, soaking in Lisbon’s sights under our first rainy sky since Italy.  We toured the old castle, the main city squares, continually tested Mike on his impressive Portuguese skills, and even practiced the age-old wisdom of ordering another bottle of wine to outlast the storm.  We had a great time together and though there was much more to do in this underrated city, we left it for Mr. Conry and Mike to tackle alone.  It was time to head home.

Monday I flew home to the US, followed two days later by Bill.  It was really over.  The day I departed for Hong Kong I wrote that I was surprised to not be bouncing with excitement for the journey – we all know that changed quickly.  But now that I was coming home I was not surprised at my melancholic mindset towards the fact that all that cycling was done.  Even one week after touching the Atlantic it has not yet truly sunk in.  It is weird not having to open a Michelin map and compass to navigate to my parent’s house, to wear shoes without metal cleats in the soles, and to have conversations over some fancy device called a cell phone.  I’m sure it will take some adjusting.

The ride is over, but don’t worry, this is not the end of the blog, website, or anything!  (We have plenty more to show and tell).  Stay tuned in the coming weeks as we post thousands of photos, stats, videos, and other fun, relevant materials.  And as the magnitude of the adventure we have just finished does begin to sink in, we will have plenty more to reflect upon and share (don’t you want to know which was my favorite country…?)

For now the simple mission statement Hong Kong to Lisbon.  On a bike. has become past tense.  And I am proud to say, it feels good.

As the grand adventure draws to a close, we want to bring attention once more to the World Bicycle Relief.

One of the main goals of the trip is to spread the power of bicycles to those who need it most by partnering with the WBR to raise awareness and help build bicycles for communities with desperate transportation needs.  The World Bicycle Relief builds durable bicycles for disaster- and poverty-stricken communities, providing an enormous leap in productivity and access to healthcare, education, and economic development opportunities.  From farmers carrying their tools to the fields in Guangdong Province, China to the incredible popularity of bike lanes in Saragossa, Spain, we have seen first-hand the efficiency and efficacy of bicycles every day over the last seven months.

We sincerely hope you have learned about this amazing organization through our website and theirs.  The Revolutions for Relief journey was featured in a recent WBR Newsletter and it’s amazing to hear of the many thanks we receive from kids in Africa and Asia for our fundraising efforts.

We have done our best to keep the adventurous tales coming for all the readers to share in our journey and to show the amazing things that can be done with a simple bicycle.  In return, we ask that you think about contributing to the World Bicycle Relief organization to help us achieve our goal of spreading this power to those who need it most.  By donating $10, $25, $150… you will have an incredible impact on the lives of thousands of people around the world struggling to survive without adequate transportation.

Special thanks go out to all who have contributed over the course of the trip.  For anyone who would like to learn more about the World Bicycle Relief and how you can help, please visit the Donate page of our website.

Bill Conry
Still elevated from our Pyrenees climb, Kellen and I enjoyed a swift downhill into Spain ready to take on yet another country.  To my astonishment, the country did not appear the way I had envisioned it based on my prior knowledge and one past trip to Barcelona.  I thought somehow we had teleported to Arizona based upon the flat, arid geography and general openness of the region.  The copious amounts of space in between towns gave us little option but to plan our meals based on our arrival in said towns.

Our first night in Spain we pedaled into a tiny village and asked a man on the street where we could find a restaurant.  When the directions became complex and he grew sick of answering our questions he decided to have his eight year old son lead us there by bike.  Although Megan the child magnet was not present, in an instant five additional neighborhood kids appeared ready to ride with us to the establishment.  For ten minutes I was in 2nd grade again, riding bikes with a bunch of youngsters as the sun went down.  Unfortunately, our destination turned out to be closed upon our arrival, so once we parted ways with our tour guides Kellen and I followed the noise to a nearby bar/restaurant to inquire about dining there.

The language baton had been passed to me for Spain, and this was my first real skills test.  I studied Spanish throughout high school and in my first semester at Michigan, however outside of ordering at Chipotle I had not spoken the language in eight years, so I anticipated my communicative abilities would be a bit lacking.  And lacking they were – it took twelve townspeople and a combination of broken Spanish, French, and English for Kellen and I to explain that we would like to eat dinner there if possible.  Part of the confusion was based on the timing of our conversation – 6:30 PM, which suddenly occurred to me is several hours before the traditional dinner time in Spain.  With a combination of charm and what I could only imagine was the humor in the owner encountering the worst Spanish accent in his lifetime, we were able to have the kitchen open a bit early to fix us some tasty ham and cheese sandwiches before finding a nearby campsite for the night.

After a couple days in the hot, desert-like conditions we arrived in our first major city of the Iberian Peninsula, Zaragoza, where for the first time since Istanbul we were staying with locals.  My Chicago friend Joe lived in Zaragoza for a few years growing up due to his father’s job in the automotive industry, and he was gracious enough to put me in touch with his friend Marcos, who was willing to take the risk in putting up some dirty American cyclists for a few days.  The newlyweds Marcos and Patri welcomed us with open arms to their city by preparing a phenomenal meal of tortilla de patata, filling us in on the history and culture of the city, and even assisting me with my improving yet far from fluent Spanish.

Embracing the Spanish schedule the following day, Kellen and I went to a late lunch at a restaurant owned by Joe’s friend Eli and her family, which had come highly recommended.  Eli’s uncle Oscar served us plate after plate of his personal tapas selections – lomo, fois gras, salmon tartar, prosciutto stuffed artichokes – it was all phenomenal.  When Eli arrived at the restaurant we chatted for hours over regional wine and Hierbas liqueur about the skyrocketing popularity of gin and tonics in Spain across the past for years, how only tourists drink Sangria, and Oscar’s affinity with Michael Jordan.   Once we finished our coffees and walked towards the tram I realized it was already 8pm and commented to Kellen that hands down this is the latest I’ve ever left lunch in my life.

We lucked out with our timing because we happened to be there on the eve of Pilar, a holiday honoring the female patron saint of Spain.  Pilar is the biggest day of the year in Zaragoza and the whole town shuts down for the parades, music, and flower tossing in the main square.  Although it was a Tuesday night, nobody had work on Wednesday and therefore it was a popular night to hit the town.  When we arrived back at the apartment Marcos told us we were going to make a batch of sangria and head to his neighbor Marta’s apartment for dinner and drinks before going out to a nearby carnival.  Kellen and I cracked up because we engaged in a similar sangria conversation with Marcos the previous night and we assumed the sangria was being prepared to entertain us American tourists.  He insisted that that was not the case, sangria was a great call given the context of the night.  Either way the sweet, fruity red wine he prepared was delicious and authentic.

Keeping up with Spanish time we went out well after my Chicago bedtime to a nearby carnival where we met up with thousands of other young people at the music tents.  Despite missing Bob Sinclair’s performance earlier in the evening, Love Generation was out in full force for a fun night!

As multiple people predicted, our Spanish schedule delayed our departure the next day as we headed towards Madrid after receiving some helpful route guidance from Marcos.  The Arizona-type conditions continued as we pedaled southwest and the land grew even more desolate than what we experienced at the start of the country.  It was imperative to strategically plan out our mealtimes and water acquisitions given that we were only passing through a handful of towns a day.  One day we were starving around 2pm and decided to see what lunch options were available in the small village of Embid.  Throughout both Eastern and Western Europe, Kellen and I have encountered countless “ghost towns” as we call them – small cities that appear abandoned: no people, no cars, and no open stores, almost like an eerie film set.  On the surface, Embid had ghost town written all over it, but our stomachs urged us to check it out anyway.

We rolled up to a bar where we came across three gentlemen drinking Estrellas.   I asked about food and they informed me that not only did they not have a kitchen, but there were no restaurants or grocery stores in the little town of 26 denizens and that we needed to travel 8km down the road to the next town.   As we walked towards the exit with our heads down and stomachs growling, one of the patrons said “queires una cerveza?”  My Spanish might not be perfect, but no matter the language I know when somebody is offering me a beer.  We joined our new friend Manuel for a round as we discussed our trip, the hot weather, and how dinner time in France is insanely early.  English is not an option in these small towns, so the exchange was exclusively in Spanish and my listening comprehension is not 100% accurate, so Manuel might have a different account of the chat but that’s at least what I think we were talking about.

Eight kilometers down the road in the next village we encountered a very similar scenario and were informed by an elderly couple that we needed to travel another 15km to find food.  All in all we had to cover 60km from the town at which we ate breakfast to where we ate lunch.  Can you imagine having to travel that far to find food of any sort?  This really put things in perspective coming from a guy who was devastated to learn that there are no Outback Steakhouses within the city limits of Chicago.

With the drop of a hat the terrain transitioned from open and barren to mountainous and green.  We welcomed the new scenery and the close encounters with wildlife that came with it.  We braved some of the steepest grades we have seen all trip as we continued towards Madrid.  One morning I woke up shivering to frost on my panniers and checked my thermometer to discover it was 38 degrees.  Kellen and I bundled up as much as we could but threw in the towel and warmed up with coffee and toast in a nearby lodge after a few kilometers – the wind chill was that bad.  Throughout the day I peeled down my layers and by the time the clock struck 4pm I was as dripping in sweat under the hot sun.  The thermometer this time read 82 degrees –a 44 degree temperature swing in one day!

I had an ace up my sleeve to combat the extreme temperatures and challenging terrain: custom made trail mix.  Unsatisfied with the packaged trail mix offerings in grocery stores, I decided to hand craft my own using a proprietary blend of nuts, dried fruit, chocolate, and the kicker: gummy bears.  The novel concept was met by skepticism from Kellen, however he came around after just one handful of my creation.

Fueled by our trail mix energy we arrived in Madrid after some marathon days and 60km on a major highway excited to tour the capital city.  Joe put me in touch with his friend Paula who was kind enough to allow us to crash at her apartment in the center of town for the night.  Paula and her boyfriend Carlos gave Marcos and Patri a run for their money for the “best host” award by guiding us on a lovely and efficient walking tour of the city upon our arrival.  We toured Plaza Mayor and Palacio Real and even passed through thousands of protestors marching in Puerta del Sol before heading over to her friend Bea’s apartment for a wine tasting birthday party.

The wine was delectable, the cheese was delicious, but what made the night was the jamon iberico.  The cured pork product native to Spain instantly shot to the top of my new favorite foods list (which has seen constant movement throughout this trip) as I indulged in the thin slices throughout the night.  Bea went all out and purchased a full leg, which she deftly carved with a sharp knife.  Enamored by everything related to jamon iberico, Bea graciously offered to teach me how to cut it.  Carving a piece of meat of this nature is more of an art than anything, and it certainly takes practice, but after a few misshaped slices I found my rhythm and churned out some of impeccable slivers.

We could have hung around Madrid for days eating ham, but sadly after just one night in the city it was time to move on as we had more ghost towns to scour and more favorite foods to uncover as we continued our push across the Iberian Penninsula.

BEARD WATCH

Welcome to the jungle.  The scruff has become scruffier and even more fiery since the last update.  It just occured to me that the red beard makes perfect sense.  My younger brother Mikey, who has similar head hair to me, has exclusively grown big reds across his beard career.  Beard geneticists maintain that the beard genes come from your younger brother, so that explains everything!  Is it possible to alter the gene pool?  We'll see...

Bill Conry
As we delved deeper into rural France towards the Pyrenees, Kellen and I were aware our days of leisurely pedaling through the relatively flat terrain of the south of France were up, and that the most challenging leg of the continent was imminent.  A bit anxious for the forthcoming climb and eager for all luck we could find, our first official day of cycling the mountain region began inauspiciously when I woke up with a gun to my head…

Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration - here’s what happened:  we camped in yet another harvested vineyard, and at 7 AM while brushing my teeth I spotted a man 50 meters away wearing an orange hat and wielding what appeared to be a weed whacker.  I told Kellen that there was a farm worker nearby and that we should hide out in our tents for a bit until he leaves.  When I arose for the second time I found him standing five meters from me and discovered that the weed whacker was actually a double-barrel shotgun.  He said something to me in French, I responded with “bonjour.”  He said something else, I responded with “one minute, no French,” and calmly informed my language guide that there was a gentleman out here with a gun and he should come speak with him.  By the time Kellen got out of his tent the man had strolled off and our lives were no longer in danger.  Once we hit the road we saw our friend with some other men bird hunting a few kilometers from our campsite in an adjacent vineyard.  Only then did it hit me that the bright orange cap served hunting safety purposes and was not a French fashion statement.

After a long day climbing and a delicious dinner in the Quillon town square, we pedaled off in the hopes of finding a nearby campsite as it was already dark and my legs were threatening to strike if I put any more stress on them.   As we climbed the densely forested mountain in the dark, we knew that stumbling upon a flat, open space to pitch our tents may take a while.  Luckily, Kellen spotted a small path off the main road that appeared to be promising and went to investigate further.  He returned to inform me that the spot was perfect; it was level and spacious, but there was a catch: he heard a loud rustling in the nearby brush that could only be credited to a human or large animal.  We agreed we couldn’t let some anonymous creature ruin our slumber and decided to go for it.  All was silent until a half hour after my head hit the pillow I was awoken by a deep, thunderous roar that seemed to shake the mountain.   We debated what “thing” was the source of this sound and concluded it was a Yeti, a mountain cow, or a dinosaur.  We were never able to verify our suspicions, but we awoke the next morning unscathed and prepared to continue our trek through the Pyrenees.

For the first time all trip the signs of autumn were apparent with orange, red and yellow foliage lightly coating the roads of the rustic region through which we cycled.  As we ascended higher and higher the beauty of the surrounding scenery increased with our altitude.  We rode up and down several labeled mountain passes, each one higher than the previous peak.  At the Col du Chioula I was thrilled to reach my highest elevation of the trip.  I knew in the back of my mind though that that pass would seem like a sledding hill compared with the climb into Andorra we had in the queue for after lunch.

After a hearty meal in the town of Ax-les-Thermes, and some tweaks to my bike, Kellen and I began to ride up.  And up.  After three hours of straight uphill I finally came to terms with the extent of the undertaking I had before me.  A rule of thumb I’ve garnered from this trip is that if you can’t see the top of the pass then you can assume it continues to go up.  The top was nowhere in sight and I had to mentally accept this if I was going to stay sane.  Motorists provided us with encouragement and entertainment with their honks, thumbs ups, and inspirational yells, while the grazing bulls, sheep, and goats gave us sights that were anything but mundane.  As we neared what we were reasonably confident was the top we faced a fork in the road both in the literal and figurative sense.  All of the traffic was funneling through a tunnel that pierced through the mountain allowing cars to avoid the highest and most treacherous section of the pass.   As evening approached we had to decide whether we would take the tunnel or the pass.  A quick cost benefit analysis caused Kellen and I to agree that since we had come this far it would be a waste not to take the pass.  It would be more worth it in the long run to know that we conquered a mountain instead of having arrived at Andorra La Vella a bit earlier.

The final switchbacks to the top were hands down the most intense riding I had ever done.  The effects of the altitude began to set in as the cold, thin air caused me to experience disorientation and nausea and forced me to dismount from my bike once for a breather.  Out of nowhere it suddenly became foggy and we soon realized this was not fog, but a cloud through which we were riding.  The road finally flattened out as we reached the top just as the sun was setting and were welcomed by the rain shower micro-climate of the peak.  Further research revealed that the Port d’Envalira, which we had just ascended, is the highest paved road in the Pyrenees at 2408 m and has been featured numerous times in the Tour de France, most recently the 2009 race.

The hard part was over, now it was time to go down.  We bundled up as much as we could to combat the teeth chattering low temps and high winds to which we would be subject.  Thankfully Kellen had an extra pair of knit gloves to lend me and a Dumb and Dumber scenario did not unfold.  After the brisk downhill we rolled into Andorra La Vella, the capital city of Andorra, for a celebratory meal and a much needed day off from cycling.

Both of us were unfamiliar with ALV and were a bit surprised to learn that it is a hip, classy ski town.  When we were walking around after lunch the following day we saw five men dressed in all green drinking beer on an outside patio and walked over to see for what occasion they were throwing back cold ones mid-day.  Our new friend Allen explained that they were all from Ireland and were in town because their country was taking on Andorra for 2012 European Cup qualifying.  Tickets were hard to come by because the tiny county of Andorra (pop. 80,000) played its games in a miniscule 800 seat stadium, and the demand significantly outweighed the supply.  They assured us that Irish nationals were traveling to ALV in force and while only some were fortunate to have a ticket for the game, they all would be drinking at the bar later and we should come back in the evening.

As a duel Irish/American citizen, I determined it was my duty to represent my country and return to this bar.  After taking care of our typical rest day chores Kellen and I walked back over and saw that Allen was not lying when he told us there would be more coming.  Now there were over one hundred Irishmen present, chanting, drinking and just overall wreaking havoc on this tiny watering hole.  The atmosphere was about as tame as Lindsay Lohan’s 21st birthday party.  I fit right in with my red beard as Allen introduced us to his buddies who were all eager to hear about our trip.

Ireland won the football match 2-0 to gain entry into the Euro Cup.  The next day Kellen and I packed up and headed into Spain.  We enjoyed our riding through the Pyrenees and knew we had notched a victory of our own.

BEARD WATCH

The mood is tense.

The red flame has spread to other regions of my face and is showing no signs of extinguishing itself.  The growth pattern has continued to favor the lower chin area causing me to question whether I am still within the bounds of socially acceptable grooming standards.  More to come!

Kellen Smetana
We crossed the border from Italy into Menton, France late morning.  This was it.  This was my time to shine.  I had majored in French, studied here for seven months, and at one time could name as many French kings as US presidents.  It was time to play tour-guide for Bill; I just needed to dig down deep below the five years of rust first.

Even before leaving Italy I began practicing by singing to myself all the French songs I knew.  Charles Trenet dominated the playlist, and if you visited the new stats page you saw he continued to play on in my head throughout the remainder of France (definitely worth a YouTube search if you’re up for some classic French songs).  But now that we had arrived, it was time to put these language skills to the test.  The road climbed a panoramic outcropping beyond Menton and we stopped to take a few photos.  As I approached another man to ask for a photo, I blacked out like Will Ferrell in Old School and found myself deep in a conversation about aperture, F-stop, shutter speed, and lens size (things I don’t even know about in English).  Well then, I guess the French was hiding down there somewhere…

Worries brushed aside, it was time to bask in the full glory of the French Riviera - or as they call it, the Cote d’Azur.  Our first major stop of the day was actually not in France at all, it was the tiny principality of Monaco.  Bill’s steadfast rule for visiting a country is that there must be at least one meal consumed there, and Monaco did not buck the trend.  We rolled in for an enjoyable crepe lunch full of discussion about whether Monaco is actually a country, but were immediately overwhelmed by the number of Ferraris, mega-yachts, and high-end designer stores.  It turns out that not only is Monaco a country, it has the highest GDP per capita in the world and it is quite the playground for the rich.  After lunch we paid a quick visit to the only landmark we knew, the world-famous Monte Carlo Casino.  We snapped a couple photos and smiled for a bunch of others (people thought we looked hilariously out of place in front of the line of supercars), and then it was back into France and on to Nice.

We took a rest day in Nice, which gave us time to check the box on swimming in yet another sea and to sit down for some serious work on a meal of all-you-can-eat mussels and fries.  I’m pretty sure restaurants don’t look at the economics of this offering with traveling cyclists in mind: it took eight buckets of mussels and four plates of fries to finally vanquish the unending ether of our bellies.  Many people have joked that we will be ready to take on any marathon, Ironman, or cycling race when we get home; it appears we may be even better prepared for the next Man v. Food competition.

We continued our culinary quest in Cannes the following day with delightful baguette sandwiches.  After passing by the awards palace of the famous Cannes Film Festival, we turned away from the sea and dove into the depths of Provence en route to our next destination, Aix-en-Provence.  That evening for dinner we opted for wood-fired pizza from a van parked on the side of the road.  As we sat on the gravel shoulder of the highway in the dark eating our pizza, two separate people approached to shout “Bon Appetit!”, thus ensuring we would enjoy our meal.  Bill was rather surprised by these gestures, and after I explained it was a very normal thing to do in France, I did admit it was a little humorous considering our current locale.  After a few chuckles and some creative thinking, we took the next obvious step to create a “Bon Appetit’ing” game to replace our now stale Exclamation game.  We’ll test the pilot over here and if it proves fun enough we’ll bring it back to take the US by storm later this fall.

The next morning we woke up in a vineyard.  As we sleep in a new place every day, it sometimes feels as though these locations blur together and we can forget how unique and special each one is.  After a lengthy campsite search in the dark the previous night, we concluded that nobody would really care if we set up shop in the middle of the already harvested vineyard.  It wasn’t until the morning that I realized how cool it was to roll over and stare down infinite rows of grape vines.  Situations like these have really taught me to appreciate the incredible intimacy with nature that camping allows.  But there was no time now to get tangled in the vines of contemplation, we had to continue speeding on to Aix-en-Provence.

Five years ago I spent seven months studying at Universite de Provence in Aix, and I was excited to play host for a fun weekend in the city.  We were also looking forward to entertaining our first visitor of the trip since Georgia, Emily De Yoe, a college friend currently studying in Rome.  We arrived mid-Friday and soon met up with Emily, who claimed she was as excited to see us as she was to visit France (but we knew the truth).  After passing a laughter-filled afternoon at the cafes on the Cours Mirabeau, the city’s plane tree-lined thoroughfare, Bill and Emily put up with my personal tour, passing my old home, favorite cafes, the school where I used to study, the bars where I used to – well, you get the idea.

Later that evening, after a marvelous Provencal dinner, we met up with two of my old friends, Francois and Christophe, for an aperitif and fun night out on the town.  It was great to reminisce with these two and share stories from the last five years (quite a lot has happened); it was also a wonderful reminder what a good feeling it is to have welcoming friends you can come back to in a place like this.

The rest of the weekend we perused Aix’s open-air markets, paid a visit to Cathedrale Saint Sauveur, popped in more cafes than I can count, and even followed in the footsteps of the city’s most renowned artist, Paul Cezanne.

We took a tour of Cezanne’s old workshop and Bill proved to be trivia master on the current controversy with the largest collection of Cezanne works, which reside at the Barnes Foundation down the street from his childhood home.  From the workshop, we climbed to the top of one of the hills north of the city for a spectacular vista of where Cezanne used to paint many of his famous Mount Sainte-Victoire landscapes.

After a fun, whirlwind weekend in my favorite city of the trip, it was already time to bid adieu to Emily as she hopped on a bus back to Marseille.  That evening I got a chance to visit with my old host family, the Renaudieres, at their new home just north of the city.  It was exciting to hear about all the great things my old “host brothers and sisters” are off doing in Aix and elsewhere around the world and it was a perfect cap to a perfect weekend in Provence.

Monday morning, it was time to get the wheels rolling again.  For the next few days we cruised across southern France and it was easy to see why the Tour de France is such a photogenic sporting event.  It seemed that around every turn we were greeted with something new: old castles, vineyards, tree-lined canals, cobblestone streets, even pink flamingos.

One of the last days before the Pyrenees, we pulled up to a countryside restaurant just before dark.  After taking our order, Jean-Marc, the proprietor, asked where we were from: Netherlands, Germany, England…?  “No, actually we are from the US.”  He ran back inside the bar screaming as if there was a fire: “Oh Putain!  Putain de merde!  [pardon my French, he was very excited]  We have two Americans here… AND they speak French!”  He came running back out.  “Two Americans visiting my restaurant; we’ll celebrate with some alcohol!”  Immediately the three of us were taking pre-dinner vodka shots.  When he calmed down a bit, I asked him what all the fuss was about.  It turns out Jean-Marc had always dreamt of visiting the US, but he has not as of yet, nor has he ever had any Americans visit his restaurant (which came as a surprise given the huge tourist numbers in places like Monaco, Nice, and Aix).

Jean-Marc joined us for much of the surprisingly tasty bull-meat dinner, and so it turned out a rather jovial one as we incorporated many of the other patrons into the conversation.  After dinner he invited us to camp behind his place; we happily accepted.  We joined the campfire with other guests of his bed and breakfast and I engaged in interesting conversation with Jean-Marc and Phillipe, one of the other guests.  We talked for hours (over more vodka drinks) about retirement in France, Bordeaux’s wine climate, and how a great amount of fascination with the US still stems from WWII, as was the case for the ever eccentric Jean-Marc.  It’s always interesting to hear about how different perspectives can be even in a place I think of as so similar to the US.

The next morning we packed up, thanked Jean-Marc enthusiastically for his hospitality, and said goodbye to our other new French friends.  We turned our wheels southwest and continued on in France, but this time the riding would not be as flat as before.  It was time to cross the Pyrenees.

In addition to the new post below, make sure you check out the updated Stats and Individual Country Stats pages.  Loads and loads of data for you to analyze ad nauseam.  Build your own graphs, charts, regressions - whatever you want (you know I did...)  And check back soon for updates to the GPS map as well.

Kellen Smetana
As noted in the previous post, we pulled into Venice and it was time yet again for major changes to the Revolutions for Relief team.  Megan was returning to Maryland to continue “real work” and we would again be reduced to two.  Megan was 100% for the cycling trip from the get-go but it took many emails from China to actually convince her to come.  In the end, the emails paid dividends and our trip across Eastern Europe would not have been the same without her.  She single-handedly doubled our “high-five count” for the region, taught us the importance of eye-brow plucking even in rural Turkey, laughed at our jokes, somehow attracted circles of children around us at all times, and gave new meaning to musical analysis with the song We Are the World (The Boss is definitely the best – see last post).  Megan was a perfect addition to the team and she will be missed as we continue across Europe.

The three of us had been to Venice previously and we all remembered it as a completely pedestrianized – and hence, “pedestrian-friendly” – city.  Our assumption that “pedestrian friendly” translated to “cyclist-friendly” was proven dead wrong the second we arrived.  At every entry to the city we looked to pursue, we were met with walls of stairs.  Then we peered further in and remembered that Venice has more canals than streets, and each canal is crisscrossed by stairs and stairs and stairs.  In case it isn’t apparent, lugging an 80 pound bicycle (and later bike boxes) up and down stairs through hordes of tourists is not fun.  In the end, we resorted to sending each other on reconnaissance missions for hotels to avoid the hassle.  The one redeeming benefit from our stairmaster work was the applause we got from bemused tourists for whom we no doubt must have been the most odd-looking trio of the day.

As is always the case, we eventually conquered our little Venice “hills,” saw Megan off, stopped in a locksmith to fix Bill’s bike, and then Bill and I were back to the races.  We had other deadlines to hit and more roads to travel.  Now an all-male tandem, we were instantly urged to flaunt our increased testosterone with a quicker pace, more extreme campsites, less small-talk, and by incorporating a gelato break into every afternoon.  Yes, even the most seasoned cyclists can fall victim to the sweet appeal of Italian gelato.  It became such a tradition that there was real concern if we thought we would not pass a Gelateria in the afternoon.  We planned well, were always successful, and even devised the excuse that it was a perfect way to explore the smaller towns along the route.

For our route through Italy, we were inspired by Clif Bar anecdotes (adventure stories on Clif Bar wrappers) to traverse the smallest roads possible (we were also helped by the fact that Italy has much better road infrastructure than any country previously).  We stormed along through the beautiful northern Italian countryside, only hopping on more major roads to cross through cities.  In these instances, we were met with something we had not seen before.  It seemed that many Italian drivers were more concerned with our biking than with their own driving: they honked and swerved wildly just to give us a disapproving finger wag for the fact that they had to share a bridge or motorway with us.  How dare we!  Bill and I just waved, smiled, and showed off glimpses of our thick skin.

It was actually a very surprising sight given the incredible number of other cyclists we encountered on the road.  Italy was full of them: we met at least 15 to 20 every day.  On road bikes they can really sneak up on us tanks.  There were several instances where I heard an exclamation from Bill and looked back to find a cyclist had crept from behind to dish out an encouraging pat on the back.  After a good laugh, they were always ready to give out a mini Italian lesson for the next kilometer or so as we gave them our story and asked about the region.

In Italy we also found ourselves spoiled rotten with charming small towns.  As we entered each one, I always imagined this same town in America, where tourists would flock for the medieval walls, Renaissance churches, or string of street-side cafes; in Italy, we had them all to ourselves.  There were parallel towns 20km in every direction, and for the residents, these attributes were as basic to their town as were the post office and town hall.

We sat down for lunch in one of these small towns at the foot of the Apennine Mountains.  I had always assumed northern Italy (south of the Alps) was absolutely flat; so when we began to plan our route from Venice to southern France, I was surprised to find strong elevation gradation between us and the Mediterranean.  At the restaurant, I figured we better learn about our upcoming climbs and challenged our host, Paulo, to tell us a little about the route.  “Well,” he quickly replied, “Ernest Hemingway once said that the Trebbia Valley [where we would be riding] is one of the most beautiful places on earth.”  A much more satisfactory answer than I ever expected and one quickly proven true as we rode higher.  The quaint Italian towns continued and the scenery opened into a deep river valley for the next two days.

Our only issue in this mountainous region was the lack of restaurants and open campsites.  One evening as dusk was setting, we found ourselves still many kilometers from the next large town.  As we regrouped to strategize, Bill saw that the single home nearby had one too many tables on the front porch.  “Could that be a restaurant?” we wondered.  After scouring the empty house, we finally bumped into a woman working in the adjoined shed, who assured that “of course she would cook us dinner.”  I guess it’s a restaurant.  Several pasta plates into one of our best meals of Italy, we realized it was now completely dark outside the still vacant restaurant.  I figured it was an appropriate time to lay out our desires to sleep on her patio; after some charming and a lot of persistence, she agreed.  We slept as well as the cement on which we rested.

The next morning we awoke for our ride into Genoa.  We were at such an altitude that most of the morning’s ride was above the clouds.  The cameras were flying until the sun broke above the peaks.

We took a rest day in Genoa, catching a bit of the Michigan game online and rubbing elbows with Genoese youngsters in a night out on the town, but we were soon back on the trail.  It was time to return to the coastal riding we knew all too well in Europe: this time, the mighty Med.

The next two days we rolled on along the Mediterranean, encountering yet more cyclists en route.  One particular gentleman introduced us to a 30km cycling path paved over old rail tracks.  It was a welcome change from our shoulder riding and took us up to the border with France.  We exited Italy slightly plumper than we entered (gnocchi and gelato diet, coming out 2012 in the States) and pleased that we had another major country under our belts.  We had high expectations for our next country and they seemed to be welcomed with open arms as we entered France under the full morning sunshine of the Cote d’Azur.

Megan Melcher
2,161 kilometers after leaving Istanbul, we finally pulled into Venice and it was unfortunately time for me to head back stateside.  While I was looking forward to warm showers, full sized towels, and non-Clif Bar breakfasts, I was very sad to leave Europe and the boys.  I know the adventures that took me through four weeks and eight different countries will last a lifetime.  Since I've been home, I've been asked the same question repeatedly: "What was your favorite part about the trip?" Being outside all day without the work-world worries of home, the sense of accomplishment following a mountain pass, and being in places and situations I never before considered are all fond memories of the trip.

However, my absolute favorite part of the trip was the people we met along the way.  For those of you keeping up with the blog, you know that we have met some absolute characters.  While some people have been more entertaining than others, one thing that really struck me is how inviting and benevolent every person has been.  Whether it was an Albanian lesson at lunch, free fruit in the rain, or a woman that spoke no English who went completely out of her way to help me find a way back to Venice with a gigantic bike box so that I could avoid a meltdown, I was truly touched by the friendliness and helpfulness shown by all.  I know I'll keep all of this in mind next time I see a struggling bike tourist riding down I-95!

While wandering around Istanbul one day before our biking began, Bill and I came across a rather ominous looking hole in the wall on the side of a small street.  It was covered in graffiti and we decided to investigate a bit.  Inside, we found a sign that read, "Art Gallery. Don't be scared. You will like."  We investigated further and after squeezing by two girls taking glamour shots in the hallway we came to a room filled with artwork.  It was the first time (but certainly not the last) on the trip when I wish I had not been biking so I could take home a souvenir.  What started as a threatening looking hole turned into a gorgeous art gallery.  The phrase, "Don't be scared. You will like" stuck with me and became my mantra for the rest of the trip.  When faced with several upcoming days of climbing, the thought of camping right next to a graveyard in a thunderstorm, or spending the evening in the middle of the road with a complete lunatic (please reference Bill's previous post), I would just repeat to myself in an unidentifiable accent, "Don't be scared.  You will like."  It's true, no matter how uneasy I may have felt to start, I always liked the outcome.  I am hoping that I can use this same mantra for the new challenges I face off of my bike.

Kellen and Bill, good luck with the rest of your trip!  I am already longing for a full day of top five lists, would you rathers, and banter about such pressing issues as the best singer in We Are the World.  I had an absolutely incredible time with you two and am so sad it's over.  Thank you for keeping me constantly laughing and entertained and for teaching me that the best way to remedy an imperfect situation is to find the closest restaurant open and drink wine until the storm passes.