Thoughts and happenings from a life on Malta

Safe cycling: A guide

Avoid lorries

Never wait between the kerb and a lorry at a junction. If the lorry turns left, the driver may not see you. Stay well behind or, preferably, in front, where you can be seen.

Stay clear of the kerb

The kerb is not your friend. Ride clear of it so that drivers steer around you. Hugging the pavement invites them to try and scrape past.

Show your face

Looking at drivers at junctions helps them to view you as a fellow road user they would rather not run over. Do the same to vehicles on your tail.

Use your neck

Learn how to look over your shoulder without wobbling and do so regularly – particularly before making a manoeuvre, when you should also stick out an arm.

Obey the code

Some may argue that it is safer, say, to jump a red light than wait in a lorry’s shadow but egregious violations endanger you and harm the image of cyclists.

Overtake buses

If you’re approaching a bus at a stop, look over your shoulder, and move to overtake. If you can’t, wait behind the bus. Never undertake.

Be bright

It’s more important to show your face and position yourself well, but bright clothing, strong lights and reflectors will help you get noticed.

Plan your route

It stands to reason that you’re probably more vulnerable in three lanes of traffic doing 40mph than on a residential side street.

Find a friend

If you’re a new or lapsed cyclist, venture out with a more experienced friend. Keep a good distance behind and watch. Then let them follow you and take their advice.

These tips are taken from The Independent. For the full article, please go to - The ‘ghost bike’ revolt: Families demand action on cyclist deaths

Dad at Rome Olympics 1960

Dad’s legacy. Over half a century ago, when Malta was still under British rule and the members of their armed forces stationed here offered stiff competition to the locals in the sporting field, my dad was one of the leading cyclists on the island. The culmination of his career was when he represented Malta in the Rome Olympics of 1960. Such was his dedication that although marrying a few weeks before the event, he convinced my mum to delay the honeymoon until after the Games. Credit to him for his focus and kudos to her for accepting. I grew up in the shadow of his achievements and the expectations that I was to follow in his wheels…..cadence…..slipstream were inevitably high. This seemed to hold true when in my first official racing season in the “schoolboy” category (as it was known then), I always placed in the top three – excepting the occasion when I had a humiliating encounter with a tree after miscalculating the sharpness of a bend at the bottom of a hill along the panoramic Zurrieq road. However, when I was around 17, the tedium of daily training dampened my enthusiasm and I found myself drifting into other sports and activities. Cycling had become an ex-love but the reach of my dad’s successes never receded. Possibly I’m still in search of an activity where I can say I’m the best local athlete in that event. Truth be told, time is not on my side but, quiet please, my brain is trying to keep that fact hidden from my body.

An affinity for hills. And if it means negotiating a mountain, all the better. With my dad I used to love watching the major tours which, in those days, could only be watched on Italian television: Giro d’Italia and Tour de France. As I still do today, for that matter. However, the real draw was always the mountain stages. I dreamed of being there, even if not necessarily in the peloton as a pro cyclist. Inevitably my heart rate would rise which each switchback and a shiver would run down my spine when the parting waves of supporters indicated that the cyclists’ efforts were reaching the final kilometres of the climb. I was fortunate to live this experience with Lifecycle in 2008 as we travelled from Lourdes to Casablanca. I won’t say that I didn’t suffer, especially on that first day when I tasted the pain a real mountain can inflict on someone inexperienced in tackling kilometre after kilometre of incline. However, the satisfaction of traversing the col and the exhilaration of not succumbing to the mountain was not only rewarding, but addictive. Every mountain stage became personal – who will dominate whom – and I had no intention of kowtowing to a mass of rock. This challenge has now carried on into running. The Madonie race was a necessary reminder of how relatively tame this island’s hills are in comparison and, as a consequence, how much harder I have to work if I want to achieve some respectable results in future.

Slow-twitch. School sports days weren’t particularly pleasant for me because the emphasis was on short athletic events, which is fair enough considering we were only kids. I dreaded the sprints though, as I did if the finish of a cycling race had to be decided in the final metres. My legs just couldn’t carry me fast enough. The learning curve of experience eventually led me to realise that what I lacked in basic speed was made up for in stamina. I need time to settle into a decent pace so basically, the longer the session, the more relaxed I feel. Of course I’m no Forrest Gump and there’s always a threshold where an element of physical discomfort and mental weakness start to set in.

The threshold. For some, it’s how fast. For me, it’s how far or how long. I’m curious to see what this body can do, I’m thrilled by what it has done. Until a few weeks before I actually succeeded, I had never imagined I could manage a 260km bike ride in one day. Until I passed under the finish gantry of the Madonie race, I had never spent so many hours on my feet to conclude an athletic event. Until now, I have no inkling of how much further I can go for but I’m endeavouring to find out. At the end of the day, we really ever cross the threshold of our abilities the moment we give up trying.

That first full day at Feudo Bauly I was the only guest and consequently I had the rather spacious breakfast room all to myself. It appears that I also caught the staff unawares because there was hardly anything prepared when I walked in; admittedly it had just gone 0730 and maybe they’re used to a more tardy clientele.

Notwithstanding this, I was immediately treated like royalty, invited to have my morning meal served while relaxed on a sofa and given a whole list of food and drink options, with Loredana toing and froing for my requirements: pastries (trellicine, cornetti, …), yogurts, fresh strawberries, orange juice and cappuccino. Had I wanted, cereals and milk were also available.

By 10:00 I was on the saddle, my body’s energy stores adequately replenished and, thankfully, without the need of a weighty rucksack! In lieu of this, I had a waist bag to carry the essentials, listed here in no particular order:
=> video cam
=> head torch
=> wallet
=> spare batteries
=> security chain
=> tissues
=> wet wipes
=> fig rolls
=> extra water bottle (only one cage on the bike)
=> notebook
=> pencil

For this week of touring, I had decided that direction would take priority over destination. Of course, I consulted my map each evening to see roughly where I would head the following day but this was only to have a general idea in which area of the Monti Iblei region to head towards. Today, it was Ferla and the nearby archeological park of Pantalica but should I have spotted an interesting side road, then I’d have had no qualms in riding it.

As it turned out, I did arrive at the entrance to Pantalica, which I reached after exiting Ferla and heading down a deserted, 11-kilometre, winding road, with only 250ml of water left on a day when the temperature was already climbing up the 30s. According to my 10-year old guide book, there should have been a kiosk near the entrance. “Should”, unfortunately, does not always hold much water with reality; it certainly didn’t help in replenishing my meagre fluid supply. Now, the only way was up and back to Ferla, a Calvary where even vinegar would have been a welcome alternative to bone-dry bottles.

Resurrection was to be found on a plastic chair on the sloping sidewalk outside Al Ranch bar, with the adjacent seat occupied by a 1.5 litre bottle of refridgerated water, a cool can of Coca Cola and two choc-filled sponge cakes. Church bells ring but my GPS shows it’s 13:52. They also rang 15 minutes earlier so it appears that time was out of synch in this hilltop town. And if it weren’t for these bells, there’d be little evidence of it’s passage, as the gents silently staring from some of the other chairs seem to confirm.

Cloud cover eased the ride back to Feudo Bauly and I cycled through the gate at 17:00, after having gone up and down 80kms worth of hills.

Video clip here: Nature scene

(For the previous part of this travelogue, click Part 3)